A few round words, a deliberate gap,
then the fragments of other texts,
flip into the pages, there the stains of ink,
the rhythms and the play of words gone,
silver night can’t rest on its laurels,
surprised that you like fleeting images.
Finding that name so many times
doesn’t truly live into the present,
interrupted by a few dots and squiggles
a repository of names and names only,
the responses never shift really
losing the biting wit and clarity.
Enraged that the diary still riffs on
the winnowing past as the endpoint,
a spectacle that's well worth observing,
pages can never store the cumulated tears
like disparate disorganized raindrops,
something feels misplaced and scrambled.