this elegy

In the mid-afternoon
the invisible poems crawl
up and down the walls,
waiting. whispering.
I ignore them,
concentrating on the sound the rain is making
as it hits the balcony railing.

If I give in to them
I hope for a raucous celebration of words,
I pray the pen will give evidence of some uncontainable joy.
But I know better.
Not now. Not yet.

Because I spied them on the walls.
Because I know what they contain,

The only thing that comes out of me,
the only thing that makes sense to me -
is this elegy.

"Transformation has it's price"
Is the price too high?
40 days of rain and fire,
disconnected fragments of truth,
the taste of impending loss
like blood
on my tongue.

I still cling to these patterns the light is making,
like watching fire throwers at night.

On the darkest days
I'll retrace all the invisible imprints with my hands
long after they've disappeared.