Because I was given the gift of opening my mouth
but I returned it. Because it is an indulgence to sing
this very question, to raise careful lung against
the dark and rational. In the days after definition
I am stunned. I long for a subject and it is lack.
I say me, I, and that claims division, a ripping
of material, clots dug with skilled fingers. A word keeps
and keeps moving—what starts blue ends
in black, then heaves blue again. The definition
builds its own vulgar boundary. I can see in the dark,
but I’m not trained in the precision to show it.
I keep my hand in its open figure, and I don’t pull back.