The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,
to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?
The light of my room
is a day
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.
Their skin and my skin,
it is more different here than the planet the women live on,
the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!
it is more different here than the planet the women live on.
There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,
languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,
tears that no other civilization will know.
We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.
The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.
Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing
. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?
It is appearance.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin