This is my line.
How can you tell? You can’t.
This line like any other.
Watch. This is my line.
Now you know. You saw.
You saw the pencil drag across this page,
you know the hand and now you know
the line is mine. And what of it?
“My” line has no particular grace,
no originality, merely “mine” or not
for no reason. For no purpose.
Better mine than another? The possibility exists.
Perhaps. Or mine better than another
or the possibility that this my-line is truly singular,
possessed of some extraordinary something
which sets my-line apart, apart from the singularity
of being mine, which warms me. I want to write warns,
and now I have.
This my-line warns of impending catastrophe,
wanton sunlight, warmed stones, blue sky,
the fear of clichés and their truths.
The truth! I want to write love and I have,
yet I cannot. The impossibility!
In this line I cannot write love,
only thorn, fear, desire. Revenge.
The disappointment nestled at the heart.
“The small disappointment.”
This is my line.
Neither grand nor defiant,
short, shameful,
hiding its tail.
Contemplating
a full-
stop
for no reason
