for so long,
it's turned into
an addiction—
what will you do
with these things
that you feel?
And you've often trembled
in recognition
of the voice
you've been using
to do all this wondering.
But it might be
time to begin
to believe in
this story you've
been weaving—
to come clean and appreciate
all the little shocks
of truth
which are shot through the morass
of your neverending fiction.
To observe
which silences
undergird the fabric
of each word,
stitching form
and emptiness together
into bodies—
better yet, into names
which compel their
passing owners
to stop short
and gape back
at you, their most
reluctant speaker,
as much in surprise
as in
recognition.
