Why on earth can’t I let
a blank page rest?
Why must I put words on it?
Remove the purity of openness.
Like dust settling on a virginal surface,
accumulating deserts,
trackless dunes.
What will I find at the edge,
where the horizon hides?
The beginning of something?
A somewhere?
The sun never stops
writing on the world,
punctuating what it shows
with shadows.
Then leaves us like a book
yet to be written,
on a table where twilight circles
the remains of day,
and we wait in the night
for illumination to save us.
Scatter the dreams that
poured from our hearts
as we wrote blind poems
on pages in the dark,
asking
who lives here?