My Poems

Known Strangers (2008)

“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.” Jean Cocteau

Like maps
Wrinkled by time,
With faded yellow edges
That denote past rhymes.

In the Unknown
Indefinitely trapped
With simple features,
Smooth or chapped,
These sculpted creatures
Déjà-vus known
And reveries sewn
Many moons ago.

Whispered sighs
And silent eyes
So profound that you may drown
In their deep and surging sea,
These known strangers are to me.

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