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.
