There’s something written between the lines of denial—
caught somewhere amongst these scuffling
strokes of genius and, more simply,
the strokes of genes.
Covering the face
like a cold sweaty glass,
like frozen fingers numb to the touch of a knife.
There’s something I haven’t said yet;
something useful I know I need.
Maybe all these useless words are leading me there.
Somewhere from something—
Everything with nothing!
And maybe then I can forget how to haunt myself.
Then, maybe, the slowly seeping fog on this shoreline can evaporate
in the rays of sunlight, in all the blindness of glowing water;
like some sort of aquarius light.
All wrapped in the warmth of darkness.
But there’s something I haven’t said yet, and
I’m caught waiting for the line;
waiting,
just
so I never have to write again
and I can retire
and budget
and fish
and pull in lines
by the plenty,
with a boat to haul it all in.
And I imagine it will be around this time that I begin to gain weight.
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