XXIX

sheepishly and now foolishly

i write songs to you

you cannot hear them, you will

never read them

i sit, then, and wish that you

could somehow pick them up,

like the scent of petrol at

a filling station. like radio waves.

these words are made from thoughts,

thoughts that scream in little whisps

of black ink. screaming loud

and temporarily relieving the

pain of the heat of the fire of the

history we have.

this history you won’t study.

this history book i

can’t put down.

this book is a swamp

of black ink

and i can not

stop writing in it.