doorstep untitled'Here, I offer to you, my self.'These are the words said by a loverto another,on a doorstep.There areshuffling feet, anawkwardlyclearedthroat.In response to the palmsupturned in vulnerability,come the words,'There is nothingthere.'
A writer losing languageI fall down to the floor before you,all my words are at your service. For, you see,they always were.I am not a writer, no,other than to write pouring rain pails for us to walk through;to express the softnesslike rabbits' tailsof existing as us two;and to describe the lovesick wailsthat shuffle in mehere without you.I cannot put words up to light. They would crowd it outdimming its impact, explaining nothing.Find me in my study.You don't need to knock anymore.Hold your arms out to me: I'll neglect my papers,and fall to the floor,before you.And what was I, before you?A screwed up pageand an ink spill.So let it run. Hold your arms out to meand let the ink on my writing desk run.I don't need words anymore.In this moment,in this wordless moment,we'll writea poemfor no one.