Wednesday, March 8, 2023


We have it 
on good, if somewhat 
tacit authority—

we can even taste it 
in the fear (which comes 
drizzled in lust)

constantly secreted 
by the tips of 
our tongues—

that some perilous, 
inky, imperious 

should inexorably appear 
at the end 
of every sentence.

Life's labor, then, consists
in approaching 
this limit,

as doomed stuntmen 
who ride for the edge, 
but don't hit it—

until we crash 
and wreck 
that babble tower, 

with silence 
as our penance.