the poem I never wrote
wrote me in its absence
all that is invisible,
opaque, silent, illegible
lies in the abyss of that poem
in its infinity I lie without knowing
ignorant of its non-existent existence,
absent presence,
is hidden a world of self
in that poem I never wrote
I long for that self
for that smudgy scattered becoming
for that longing itself is where I exist
in the seeking I shall never find..
perhaps we are constructing a world
where poetry is no longer possible
where we will be incapable
of writing one,
of imagining,
of flirting,
of living in a poem, as a poem
incapable of touching one another
we will succumb in the poem
that no one ever wrote..
5 9 '26
