poems

poems very often are short.
and that is why
i can still be with them.
things when they protract,
all of them more or less,
seem to make less and less sense.
among houses by the road
breaking down, falling as i write.
trying to understand things, people.
is the worst of our failures.
for that is not meant to be.
what permeates through is the forgetting.
and what make sense are
things with the span of a dream.
to last unbroken in a memory
obscured by a new war everyday.