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

 

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