Once, as we spun our verses,
we spun into one another, and
delighted with our self-generated energy,

we made a galaxy of letters.

Once, the flesh was made word,
and our words made our flesh
tremble for one another's
words.

Once, our nimble fingers
reached across reality and space
and tangled
in a landscape of our own making.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But that landscape is gone now,
gone black,
gone white,
just gone,
and I -

I haven't seen the sun in many days.

My eyes are frozen shut,
my hands are numb, my fingers
motionless and silent,

thoroughly tamed,
and I -

I haven't seen you in many days,

because I don't want
you seeing me
like this.

You wouldn't recognize me, anyway.

But sometimes, when I watch
my breaths come out in
labored puffs,
I imagine
they can still
reach you and stir

our galaxy of letters.

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