I wonder how many people have sat in this chair and asked their questions of who and why
would sit inside when outside the world is walking.
I wonder how many poets have sat here
reflecting their words and heard in themselves
There´s a wine in your hand where should be a ring,
cigarette stains on the table hand rails.
There´s a raw heart beating through immutable sleeping
and his voice is echoeing still.
And yet you are here, you have always been here,
a part of the class you prevail.
A forgiving world enters the space you inhabit
and the world is lifted in place.
I wonder in part of the crack in your heart,
will it mend like this wood stuck intact?