This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,
Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,
Blank sheets of paper that reflect the
Whitened the world that I was silenced by.
There were two years of that.
Slowly,
Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or
To bring me to that diet of corrosion,
And flickered to its terminal.—Now in an older handI write my name.
Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,
I speak to silences of altered rooms,
Shaken by knowledge of recurrence and return.
