Tuesday, February 26, 2019


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 in our heart
shaped boats

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

worker, toiling alone
in my hollowed-
out silence.

No one from that other universe
can even hear this; nobody
watching, or daring

to stop me—from
damming up a desert
in order to fish.