This is the only process I trust—
every day
I don't know
what I'm doing
or whence
these slender figures before me
that frighten me so much
have come;
a window is always cracked open
a door is ajar
and the air is still
though I can't recall the season.
Always
I keep forgetting all this;
Always I must keep
realizing I've forgotten—
I am not the gears at work; no
I am just the turning.
I am not this speaker
from his throat to tongue to teeth; no
I am just the biting.
I am not the vanishing-
yet-ever-present past; no
I am just the hope
of learning.
I am not this
poem—or that; no
I am just the writing.
