Then I dropped my voice – BOOM – right onto the sidewalk.
A glitter, a spritzing, a spark. A diffusion and ooze. It runs out.
Watch it pour along the surface, draining toward sewage.
Voice. A voice. My voice. Sploosh.
All the books I want are priceless.
Those I need – they cost too much.
I am a writer who learns.
I am a learner who writes.
I am a failure that loves.
I am a lover that fails.
It becomes apparent: Yes, I am. A parent.
The book I am not reading –
caught in a withdrawal.
That is, boundaried from writing.
Between abstraction, and empathy.
There lies a void, inevitably.
You can’t trust silence.
We rush to fill.
(That distant sound).
I read for conversation.
(don’t fulfill responsibilities)
Attention. Integrity. Inquiry. Response.
I simply tripped, a clumsiness
[I dropped my voice]
but I am here.
Enmeshed in words but unable.
I’m no librarian.
Vague because I say so.
(my human apparatus little equipped for the overwhelm of data)
Ant in a kingdom
Less than that.
I wrap my brain around it.
Waving goodbye to body.
My voice drops.