So As to Give Titles to Our Suffering

Here among all these cluttered words I find not one

What with this constant ringing this thin screech of tinnitus

Here among all the stars that blur and fade into sunrise

Not a single wish worthy of morning’s woven language

Here among all the fixed ideas of omnipotent law some

Telephone is expecting me in vain to say hello to whom?

Here among something dark and dystrophic perhaps

I’m the one who peeks through a keyhole to see vast

Ecstasies of dawn and harbingers of your bright voice

Here among the photo-copied manuals of friendship

Which speak not on a single reciprocity of proud morbidity

You cleanse my spirit with your breath you rinse me clean

Here among all these tongues of worthless advice and no

Saying worth inscription you with such wit and with such what?