So I can't talk to anyone about
what matters to me, is that what you want
to tell me? That an interlocutor,
the question of which words to choose, or any

consistent objectivity's been left
so far behind? That what got said till now
was an exception, that I was more cogent
when silence was my chosen strategy?

And all I'm left with is the plausible
lowlands of bit-by-bit, a dribbling
stone tap, that everything that cannot be
expressed constantly runs the risk of freezing?

But even if you were right! Forming a cavern
drop after drop is still some kind of art,
and brings a certain status with it, though
I'd rather be done with it, and "there's the rub".

This gives rise to endless difficulties,
satieties, insatiabilities.
Associations of what can't be said
see not themselves, but only their outside.

2004