‘how he wrote the flow of our pouring’
see that?
see how it came from nowhere?
it frightens me - sometimes.
how the words seem to come from a spirit
just behind the edge of hindsight,
beyond the dusk at the back of my mind.
is there a hole in space-time leading to where
the poets rail that their words must be heard,
must be still the font of all of their times;
and am i chosen as this conduit?
a vent in the dam of the damned words!
it frightens me,
and yet
i repeat them
because i have to.
do i not? do i not?
but it still frightens me to ask
‘how did i write the flow of his outpouring’
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