DEAD SET

It's true;

there's a secret sacred
room in you

where you daydream
great birds

and huge fish 

in dark water

and labor to translate
experience into words. 

But though you're content 

with the worth

of this arrangement, 

the halo 

of loneliness 

which serves 

as your lighting 

will diminish over time 

with the dearth 

of your returns.

How long does it take

to furnish a language?

What hellbent book 

are your days

and nights writing?