La Seine, Paris. Photograph+ Digital Alteration. November 2011.
I am sorry
For my jumbled mess of thoughts
my contradictions
my ash offerings
I am sorry
for my sterile hips
for burning like a fallow candle
for not fathoming your fullness
(I salute it now).
Penelope undoes at night
her morning’s narrative.
It changes with each day:
two steps forward and one back
is not a step forward.
In fact, it is very much like
marching in place
while wearing a hair shirt.
I am sorry for my darkness
For wanting to hurt you with dandelions
for standing by a ripped promise
like a stubborn stone.
I write because
I have to.
If necessary, I can beg for a pen and paper
to hold again my favorite barbed wire.
(Sylvia Plath tell me again
how much fun it is
to write a poem).
…
I move my arms to caress
the petals of a giant sunflower
Inhale, lenghten
Exhale, melt.
In my raw silence,
my shard-sharp mind, my heart-awareness
forgetfulness is that one wine
I cannot purchase:
The door was ajar
yet I chose not to enter.
“Forgive my thoughts,
for they bloom at night
Nightflower’d orphans
banished by light”.
San Diego, November 2011.
sketchbloom.com 
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