No matter how we reinvent this writing malarkey
or, how, precisely, we feel about its sig-nif-icance,
there is a wondering within our hearts,
a hiding between the folds of our soul,
so much more than a mirror
mumbling at us, incessantly,
“there’s a story to be told,”
but all we hear is:
‘fear fear, fear terror, fear anguish.’
Untold stories circle within us
as we try to live, secretly.
stories we hoard
and dole one out to ourselves
when frightened or bored.
A way to lift us into
a new mode of travel down
the lanes and unadopted roads
to lead us to a borderland
of ruins that we investigate,
at our peril, in our own time:
poems, novels, plays, opera, ballet, painting:
we bring these back to the multi-story flats
to help us to see
differently:
high windows, sure, but stained too,
stained, with all that love can do.

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