Writing Poetry

by Nicholas Klacsanzky

Wanted it to be natural – a fact
in a guidebook about India,
or the acceptance of an insectile fragility.
But no one hears a voice
through a broken lantern.
Silos of blank poems
are empty to pursue division –
how a word tastes when injected
through reading sight – elongated tunnels
of light, their tips securing a painting out of canvas
on childhood wallpaper. Art is never
art. Coincidence has as much clarity.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s