when I write (for LM)

when I read (For LM)

to write, sometimes, I think, to create through time
is to destroy oneself, in that constant outpouring
the desiccation of the body, in that watershed tap
up-surge, the calling forth of words, in the cringe
a shrinking vocabulary, storehouse sacked
the stockpiled mind, let loose the mad dog, insane
foaming runaway to the horizon, never to be recovered
no matter the search of uphill and down dale, not to be shot
out of sight, a skate on the thinnest ice, a breakthrough
feared and odd, so curiously, destructively desired
the ultimate experience, each word breathed, of near-death
suffocate, submersion in an airless world, awaiting a reach down
and pull out, squeak by survival of the serene unexpiring hour
the saving by parts of a body ever smaller, the shrinking
of some innermost soul frightened, barely clinging
by its last tattered fingernails to a bleeding interior
of the architect who builds to eventual ruin
an infinitely puzzled over unearthing, some dazzling find
an archaeological surmised dig, discovery of the holy relic,
streaks of mind found hidden in mines of diamonds
harvested over in time scarcer, the pan for gold shining by bits
less in a depleting vein, the wash and slosh of disappearance
blood-let of fading pumping heat, the fluid fuel allotment of life
spilled rampant on the page, a flood surge to the ocean
of a violent stream, storming, unheaded unkindly unfed
by an ever less wishing well fulfilled, the bored artesian going dry
and the last line written, I think, in a near incomprehensible hand
must be nearly transparent, a disappearance, a gossamer silence


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