Words were arrows then,
conduits of lightning no one but me
knew where to receive. Poems
clawed forth from a sea whose danger
I respected. Reach this if you can.
Write me. Right me. Truly there is no way
to deliver it—you with no body—
I with no soul—give me your words,
back me up in the tunnel between worlds.
There must be a way.
Each tag is a graffiti mark that erases
the past by replacing it with another.
Someone had something to say, but who?
These walls form a palimpsest of vacant
movements of the mouth.
Words. Sounds. Names. Who cares?
An entrée of paper-maiche, an opener
of letterpress cardstock, diluted pulp
of parchment to drink—I’ll do, I’ll do it—
imbibe these wordless spaces
so that somewhere inside
my love for you will become
a bridge for your absence,
and I will have more to say