These stanzas are like having to wear a weird shirt. The buttons
don't line up right. There are no pockets.
The lines of this poem are a factory that employs
the dead. Ghosts of people that walk
on concrete floors, their eyes
like blank sheets of paper. Do you
have a pen? Me neither.
What is a day? Rows and lines
of broken things - dreams, hopes, love.
No, that's too hard and I reject it.
A day is you with your shoes off.
You are running toward me
laughing. You are telling me
about some poet from The Gaza Strip
Where are the jars that hold those things
we saved? Paper clips and erasers. Odd
screws and bolts. Jars that didn't have lids
anymore. That no one wanted,
like these poems.
I am bent to this task that I have given myself.
For fifty years I have kept busy, and now
I don't think I know how to stop.