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-
