the line reels in the poem
that is not yet poetic
the coloured blocks make a sentence
as the letters fall apart
the knitting of finger slips
and twines the tendon that hinges the bone
repeat the meaning twice
the motion with your hands says I told you so

I would not be so certain I lived before
except I have an exceptional number of
problems to work out—and it occurs to me
nothing happens without a reason—someone
must be doing this to me.

It’s not that I cannot make sense out of it, it’s just its expression
continues to confound my friends, aid my enemies, and makes
my mother cry. That she can make sense of what I am saying
only makes me worry she loves me too much—I’ve no message of love,
no poem, not even a song, more like a howl, a sob, a bad birth,
perhaps that’s why she understands. But she understands
it as if it happened, and I think it’s still happ’nin’; if I could only
convince you I am thinking about this right now.

I’m convinced I must keep expressing myself,
even if I cannot express myself.
Speaking, I bring my arguments to life,
my reason speechless, speeson reachless, season ‘r’ peechless.
The forms still exist, I resonate and explode the sonnet.
The signs I erect are just that—erections, signs, fingers pointing,
you provide the landscape. It’s shared.
Struggling in the dark, I set the fuse,
imagine you listen, aflame.

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