Two Poets

They came for us one day;
I hid behind the buttons-
Q, W, E, R, T.

He turned, walked away-
walked to the furthest room,
the room with one door
and no windows.

                                                 There had been nights when we'd
                                                 played lovers, me and him;
                                                 I, perched on his 'window', would sing
                                                 and he

Q-W-E-R-T-

                                                There had been nights when I'd
                                                flown in through the window,
                                                a sparrow and hovered
                                                for a moment to see
                                                what they call an eternity.
                                             
                                                I'd been rain on some nights
                                                and a snowflake on others,
                                                falling, dropping, giving in, dying.

                                                It was beautiful-
                                                our being perfectly free.

Then one day,
they came for us.
We weren't found, of course.

I still hide behind the buttons
and he lives a windowless existence.
I don't knock, not me.

Reading the Notes

Weightless on a bike,
I travel like
the unreal quaver
playing in my mind,
leading me to forgetfulness.

I look up at the sky
and open my arms
to the blackbirds that fly-

birds,
like musical notes
on an endless sheet.
Sky is music
and so am I.

Halt me not,
let me go today-

I look up at the sky;
my eyelashes like staves,
trapping a few bird-notes.

A Birthday Party

They were blowing into balloons,
themselves
and the balloons wouldn't take it
for they came in sizes, too small
to be inhaling emptiness,
containing
the weight of it.

The balloons burst.
They tried newer ones.

Mother got tired.
Father needed a drink.

I picked the reds and greens from the floor.
It pricked me when I saw him
head to that door
while she tried
to try a little more,
my mother.