what is the poetry of existence?

a construction of temples for and without the 'other'.

this day

the day announces itself over and over and over again, a nauseous turn spiraling and sinking, but i cannot hear it, feel it,  maybe, but for me it has yet to begin

just write

i can't "just write" when the sun is weeping at my fingertips.  i must first handle the carcass of words melting at my touch.