Bone Light

Writ

61 Writ A man in a black suit with a zero for a head follows me. He carries a gun shaped like language; wants me written and dead on the page. He can smell my bleach-stained letters and can taste what I have written; the inked bones of words. But he cannot hear me breathe. Silence is my refuge. I see the white door of paper; I open it and enter. I was there forever it seems, thinking of the origin and the end of poesis. I thought I had lost him somewhere between the point and line of language. But he finds me, unwritten in the depths of the page. He lifts the barrel of his pen, center on my forehead, pulls the trigger. Through hair, skin, bone, I feel the weight of ink enter my forehead. The darkness takes up the white spaces of my skull, I let him fill me with words. ...