a looseness to my frame.
a space between each bone.
plenty of room for eternity there,
everywhere. there is nothing so
heroic in allowing the inevitable.
in closeted speech, in patterns
attuned to too much conversing
with silence, my bones speak
of or for me. i've been accused of empty
words -- too vague, too loose.
as if that is wrong,
as if the room afforded there
should be made thick and air
tight so questions cannot breathe.
balanced on the slim ribbon of consciousness,
i have watched language sleep beside me,
restless, or still -- half illumined
and as much obscured.
lost in sweet shadow and articulate
hesitance. it wakes sometimes,
in a sudden shift. it opens its eyes
like a child from a deep sleep night fright.
looking straight at me, it recognizes
nothing.
i grow empty. i grow
meaning full and free from history.
anything truly at peace comes from
troubled past. so i've heard.
empty words. i've been accused
of phrases lacking clear direction.
i cannot provide a tour guide or map.
you are here in this verse. what is
verse but a place to get lost?
therein lies hope for finding
-- something -- a way back
or a way to question,
and perhaps then, a reason
to never return.
