Forward
By Jason Walther
My mouth
gurgles words
like a brook choked
by mud. They float
in a pond
like pay, pay,
paper swans. They soak
the water, the scum,
bump into the lily, and drown.
Monks write haiku
on this same rice paper
and let them glide down a river
folded into boats
never read.
I wish I could fold my words
into boats, and not care
if they leaked, or if
the sterns unfold
into tails, waving
for help
before they crumple,
silently,
in the middle of a closed sea.