I didn't start,
I just supposed
that I was writing;
I pretended.
When to leave and
what to leave behind?
Writing poetry,
a spiralling,
a gift to
drive light into.
But how and
why the words?
The role I choose
to play in this
poem is a
parental one...
How to put the
poem to sleep?
Once all the secrets
are dry, words
neither believed
nor feared...
Faith and fear
have changed?
Now I believe
in absence
as much as
appearance.
Where is my sense
of irony?
Behold my head
curved inward,
I cannot hear,
that's for sure.
Can you hear me
filling with water?
I am sheer receptacle,
a holder from
out of which
drinks are poured.
What's your
poison?
I mouth words,
becoming even
as I speak,
unspeakable.
How to swallow
the future?
I have chosen
already,
to wash it
down quickly.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Questions & Statements (2003)
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