Àlláñ Harold Rex - 2 Poems

There is no one to call you into exile or not 
There is no one to call this a poem or not
I want to carry all my poems across
Familiar than my hands are the wounds 
I write in between blank spaces 
In gaping doors 
In the closing between the eyelids 
Poetry is a limping silence
Happily tied into a noose by a child 
A swinging black rubber tube 
In the hang of a branch on the lakefront





Your absence like a poem
and ellipsis placed 
. intentionally stays inside,
doors of melancholy
breezes in and out with longing.
And the poem flies ,
from within,
the flyer from a campaign
that flew into the crowd,
read with no reason
and
burned with no intentions
it is cold
nine and raining in the morning
all my alliterations, strays,
shredded and thrown into bits,
soiled in the rain
and my poem, a paper origami crane,
with false legs,
that forgets to float
and or
floats to forget
and all my imageries stand,
named and marred, in the
shade of their darkness, a pool,
pelicans peck, fossils in the bed
blue and still the poll,
the silence in the dents
of the skull,
is what they have struck on
outside, the monsoon hushes in and whispers
it has never let you, do with to speak
it is why you want to end with ellipsi