Finally, we decide
that the loneliest world is the one
where words exist. Every letter has to compensate
for something transient and unforgiveable. When
I was a child, I caught my father staring at me
early in the morning, his expression an
exclamation of missed chances. And did you
see the long, delicious wink that
stranger gave you? The one pure
language is what we say out loud in our
sleep. There lies the reality
of all these silent spaces. Once, I said, god
can only exist on a blank page. Everything written
ceases to be a miracle, stops being
a secret. The heart breaks at the sound
of a leaf falling and all I am allowed
to say is wrapped in the atonement of someone else's bewildered
cry: Look! The sun!