shove you,
what will I find?
Does the sky in your mind
have a limit?
Can you hear what
you are thinking
under what you are reading?
Does it at times drown
the reading out?
Where do the words come from?
What if we drained them of their meaning
just to see what remained?
Do the words fold,
fold back?
How is it with all this language
there is still this thing
so vast that we have
no name for it,
even if we sense it as a thing
we have seen?
Were the words
trapped in the pen,
just waiting?
Did they burst, sperm-like,
into meaning in our mouths?
Can you taste it? Can you feel it?
What about it?
Is it time to think time?
Do the words time?
How many times?
Is it locatable?
Has it a space?
Does it have a secret?
When will you tell it?
Are you anxious?
Are you ready?
Is it simply because you do it?
Are we inside it
Or is it in front of us?
What if we said that we had done this thing?
Can you give a yes or no answer?
Can you say it in a few short words?
Did you go into that phase and go through it?
What is it like to not work?
Would you just go out to the ocean one day
and begin to swim,
outward without limit
toward a vague conclusion?
What of a poem that
stretched from summer to summer?
Will the sun grow cold?
Or will the clouds burn off?
What kept you here?
Are you with me?
Or against me?
It’s me,
Isn’t it?
(from NADIR'S ZENITH)
