If it makes sense

What is this thing
stopping my hand midair,
playing my absolute chords
as if my winter self could transcend
the inaudible poem of the moment.

every constellation hide my body
and i am dangling over the moon,
waiting for permission to be.
( to be)

behind my virtuous eyes
there is a dancer, a bird, a stone
where i disappear when the great concerns
whisper. but they are so vague.

above me,
the planets rise,
below me,
a speck of light illuminates
the universe
and i see,
i see my undescribed desire
to drink life.

karla bardanza
http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com