TE16 Turkish Delight

Ten Poems

My feeling is that I belong to night that there’s a roadhouse and that I’m a poet who’s ended up inside it

What’s mine isn’t poetry or sorrow if I could only find the shadow they left behind that would be enough for me

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Inside you, a street winding down to the sea inside me, a house leading to the capital city old fumes, old coal, old rails a beautiful darkness once ran between us

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When rain comes, poets need to be called up and asked about the apple, about its secret, if not, the apple, the secret, the poet all must be forgotten with the rain, and “nothing asked of all those left in silence”

There’s an apple I owe you, but the apple alone knows this, not you

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The sorrow of words seems to be made of paper pain’s emptiness wrought more finely than a sentence 271