I still sit
at the writing desk
waiting for the violence,
for the language
to crack.
Words come
(when they come)
one by one,
wet and slack;
as primeval
subspecies
from the ocean
of doubt.
And one by one,
I wring them out
and hang them
on the line of silence.
But this isn't
a method
of making something
so much as
a way of marking
time.
