Ai Ogawa Poems
|3.||Riot Act, April 29, 1992||1/20/2003|
|5.||Passage For Allen Ginsberg||3/5/2012|
|8.||Nothing But Color||3/28/2015|
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the ...