I come fresh from a day filled with words,

shaping prose to illuminate a history,

speaking in tongues in my sleep

waking to dark news on a bright screen


It is too much, this indwelling

in language and thus


I would be as light, simple, molecular, mute

and necessary, needed by everyone

turned on, turned down

blown out

blocked from the window

furtively entering by the back door:


I would be light, and air,

the dust of stars, the luminosity

in a mare’s dark eye

as certain of my power

and consequence

as fire.


copyright  j.andrews 2010  draft