this is the place where i don't know you
forgotten bossa nova, fan whirs.
that is the darkness where the colors
you dappled on a woman's
poem of names don't haunt me.
that is the time i won't remember.
that is the moment in november
when i don't write a nonsense verse,
think it instead a pointless farce
and leave it inside my head instead.
that is the place where i don't find you.
that is the muslin i can number
stitch by stitch in my head,
as i draw back the words i gave you
with my undo of invisible thread
that is a place where i sew wonder
just for the who i was in spite
of you, the me i stitched for me instead.
that is the quilt i dare not render.
that is the chance that doesn't plunder
my heart from end to bloody end.
that is the tree that stands full silent
smirking, as trees do, in their mocking.
that is the day that dawns in springtime
when all my trust is rent asunder.
this is the place where i don't love you.
these are the lines i leave unsaid.
If you've any comments about this poem, Rosemarie Koch would be pleased to hear from you.