For my birthday

Upon my thirty-five year-
what a strained poem here,
knicky-
knacky:

I talk to myself
what, why and how I see,
distorted
ungainly.

I cannot see the future.
I run burning of desires.
I bore.
I know.

My goal is not to quench my fire,
but seek the meaning of it,
search
it out.

Anthropoid, calibrated
world whines-shouts:
it
tangles.

My fix point, from which my world
can be shifted out: from the cross
He hugs.
He finds.

The origin of
my coordinate system
I don’t let
to be, He is.

Desire for happiness, for finding
wife, our life’s victuals
is broken
into pieces.


To hope a long life together,
the love out the evil forever,
He starts,
He helps.

See it, for this little poem
from my loving miss
I deserve
a kiss.