Write chunks of white poetry on black night.
Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self
Morbidly touching the way an old tree waves
In your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep
Over yesterday’s homework in waving paper
Below a basement, between pictures of gods.
Poetry is confessional, some redness in face
Looking into crevices to let things not sleep.
A sleep alone will deliver up your confession
As you turn to your side to face a blank wall
Where beginning , middle are not pictured
And the end turns out to be a breath, a lack.