if only

if only there was something 

that could tell me
which direction to go
after reaching the dead end
to turn back
or

run straight into the wall

the poem i never wrote

 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