|The insistence of letters|
The emptied shelves grow dusty as I wake up,
one day closer to departure. On a rented
desk table, a cacophony of balled notes and
bled pencils mocks the idea that every passing
thought must be accompanied by a commentary.
Each poetry book takes its cue from a memory
and I doubt whether I will need at all the ones
already swept away by the shallow token of grief:
my un-disciplined pen prawling about like a nomad
pleased by the resistance and ambush of pain.
Like foreign bodies, the volumes pile on the bed,
pushing their weight to a limit dynamic and too desirable
to discipline easily. For weeks, I’ve packed and re-
packed them on long lists, familiar names of authors
adaptable and elemental, though beyond the power to heal.
I cannot make up my mind and copy feverishly
random stanzas on recycled paper, other rhymes
already mapping the foundations of my next home.
The books to leave behind, I pile in a corner
to see how much I’ll have to do without. Enough.
(comment on this poem)