Wordless

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WORDLESS


Still, I can't help but think what

life would be without

the shaping-stuff—how then 

we’d be in empty ignorance 

about exactly how much better we

would be—how then we wouldn’t be,

you see, at all—and would it be


        (non-being)


really all that bad? What if, back then,

His pen was just as dry as mine,

His spoken efforts, too, produced

a gaping sheet of silence

on the waters of the deep?

If this were the reality,

You couldn't even call it

writer's block without

something to be blocked, right?


        Dead peace, and quiet.


And speaking of dead, surely

no one would go to Hell

for believing the wrong ones

without the right ones

to make them wrong. Maybe

fear is what's clicking these

keys, mortality. But damn

it, I've written a poem

again, and you've read it, so here


        we are.




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