There is always something
indescribable
in the need you
feel to write things down—
something unsayable
in the sounds
your mouth must
use to say so.
It's something about a raven
(or a crow,
more likely)
always pecking
the peripheral, always
needling away
at the corners
of your temples;
your penchant
for holding your breath
well past
the point of discomfort,
to distress
just to sharpen
to the point of exhilaration
the pleasure of setting it
free once again;
something
about finding divine-
ly comic inspiration
traced out by wandering
motes of dust
in the window-
stretched light of a
tapioca sun—the same sun
that has lulled you
into happy, ochre
thoughts of love—
the same sun
that must burn until
it swells
up and
kills everyone.
