Trying to Contain It within Your Simple Hands

Once again

You sit in your room writing

Do you want to know what you think of yourself?

Listen

This is what those evenings are always like

They each of them

Portend something that arises and arouses

An eye as careful and appraising as your own

Watches you

Those evenings make everything

Grow brighter

Tiny lights go on at the tips of your fingers

You would also like to be wise

And nothing changes

Except a thing or two

Those evenings you reach

For a rope of water

Tied to the sky’s taut tit

The wind’s brisk udder

You are excited by flaccid stars all

Aslant in the warped window

Listen

You don’t want to change yourself god

Help you

In you you have someone

On whom there is no relying

It’s okay

Why should you have to explain these things?

If you realize all this already

Then maybe give yourself a familial wave

And it probably wouldn’t make you live any longer

Is to write a need?

The path is taken before the name arrives

Just as one has begun to be able

Those evenings

You empty your calfskin glove

You pour out the hand you use for writing

Listen

The listened for reaches you

As high as a doorstep

Where you find the name

That is yours and finally

Step into yourself

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