Tuesday, February 26, 2019

LAW OF CONSERVATION

Consider the possibility—
most words don't really
want to be written.

They must be
yanked up here
forcibly, one at a time—like

some monstrously
ugly green pike—
to struggle and flop

across the asphyxiating surface
of our silence's little
cup-shaped boats

from a river which,
on paper, doesn't exist.
Out here, I am a nameless

worker, just like
all the others, toiling alone
in my hollowed-out silence.

Nobody not from that universe
is even listening to this, no one
here watching, or daring

to stop me—damming
up the desert
in order to fish.

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