than I want said.
Like tea leaves settling
in a clean saucer,
my future and my past collide,
supposedly mark me
as both sincere and unpredictable.
I try adjusting my grip,
the pen's thin cylinder
quivering like a divining rod
above a cool white sheet
of paper. Nothing changes,
what will come out will come out
from a deep pool
I've stirred inside me.
My head is an inkwell
through which my blood
surges and subsides,
tides feathering their forces
through the peninsulas of my fingers.
Even forgery serves no purpose:
my unconscious rats
to the authorities, I am held
accountable forever to myself.
I sit in this cage of bone
all day, reading a little,
humming a few tunes, learning
if I can
how to forgive
these blabbermouths, my hands.