, , , , , , ,

i write
and i worry
for pages on end
suffice to decide what words
might erase
i write when there’s nothing
i need to let go
but the jab of my pencil
parchment and coal
i write my forgiveness
before it is asked
and where you are now
i write and i whittle
nights to defend
so sure my thoughts would arrive
somewhere else
if left for a moment
hung o’er my page
awaiting a memory to come
i write in the places
i thought i would end
and pull up the margins

i write

. . .