Block Song
Waiting. For absconded inspiration, for mania from God, for the suicide snake in the crawlspace. For you to come home. What story will you get then? Not this one. I go down, waiting, more than once but I don’t count. Given the truth you’d give me the figure. I see you read it from blank paper. I see you hold up two fingers, three, through green snakecolored water.
Excision
what’s left out is more important. there’s no whole truth. you’ll be the unavailable memory. the lost tape, the burned letter, the deletion. in my mirror I see blank silver, no you, no me.
