Anne Kellas # 7, A language poem of sorts

She with her imageless words
in her house with her hollow cat
and her hungry letterbox,

with its rectangular chin
she fills her ideas with poems
and empties them again.

Over and over, she says,
my lines make no sense.
I tell her, wait.

But she stuffs her words like pillows
and pulls them over her ears
so she can't hear the cries

of the cat on the letterbox
watching the strangers walk by.
And all the time, the imageless words

stack up at the windowpane, placards
proclaiming proclaiming
meaning meaning.

And hollow hollow the days that pass by.