I’m asked to write
Reams -
No pen over paper this time
Only the fevered outpourings
Of a tortured mind.
But then I do not write
For there is nothing
To be written
That has not been written
About already in the ghostly seams of time
That claw at you with their banshee wails
of remembrance.
What do I write
When these days it is enough
To only feel the pinprick that does not
Hurt
But amuses in its failure to prevent
Another kind of cold numbness.
What is today
if not
The written word that renders itself
Obsolete and haggard with the weight
Of the numerously inescapable meanings
None of them permanent?
