You are here



This nothingness that feeds upon itself:

Pencils that turn to water in the hand,

Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,

Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,

Blank sheets of paper that reflect the world

Whitened the world that I was silenced by.

There were two years of that. Slowly,

Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or divides

To bring me to that diet of corrosion, burned

And flickered to its terminal.--Now in an older hand

I write my name. Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,

I speak to silences of altered rooms,

Shaken by knowledge of recurrence and return.

Weldon Kees