Beneath the Rubble


Beneath the Rubble

Seeing your face
In the lit-up square of an article
I don’t know what the proper questions are.
I wrote the book
And then I ate it.
I’m still digesting the colossal thing.
I don’t know what to put labels on
If we were children at the time.
Can I call this map with red lines where you don’t connect
A map of the dinosaurs?
Can I call this wet pile of leaves that seems to stick
In my throat a genuine piece of something from another time?
Beneath the rubble of scrolls that are now dead,
Beneath the dust of fallen faces
Which then are taped over
With new expressions, new reasons and new clothing…
Are you here?
Are you in any way the same
Or are you different and nameless
And beating of your own accord.
The compasses get wonky when I ask questions.
If I am not prepared to walk the plank and jump
Then I am not one who should ask.

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