Friday, August 14, 2009

The Manuscript.

The manuscript sits on the shelf, gathering
dust and mildew and the old writer still
does not see-

my life is a blank page that is open into
a door that revolves around a world that
is no longer here-

forgive me, uncertainty, for I may mingle
in doorways that see into yesterday and boxers
are calm in their waking;
and the uncertainty is not coming with something
I no longer see,

and we are here, like revolving shadows,
caskets, if you will, of broken parts,
words that speak of reason,
no more reason to be had-

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