on the day when the first monosyllabic あいづち from you
is a more treasured conversation than the book my tongue wrote
on the others’ ink-splattered ears:

i will have lost all dreams with the five canonical senses
and i will spend the nights twiddling and encoding,
transmogrifying and teasing until I’m closer to having
the words to say to you

and yet “presque vu” will be the only expression i can stutter
and i will be sleeping standing up
unleavened by bread perpetually unbaked
always ready to find who I’m
never prepared to accept

and i’ll climb down from the dusty tower
to fly you like a kite
the rush of thoughts will buffet you
and there will be a short flash and a longer rumble
as background merges with foreground merges with transparencies between
but the storm will close its eye as it passes through your light.

and we will be conversing about this sentence as I write it
and i will be filling the brief pauses with
perfectly-worded responses to things you haven’t said
and your next words will appear, and I will drop the ink because
there are now even less things nobody has ever said.

and you will be watching a film
as I am ripping mine from the reels
and there will be a gash in a screen somewhere
because the one in front of my eyes has a plot twist
finally.

you spend your life trying not to disturb the red ribbon of fate tied around
your pinky
in case the other side is tugging back
but when the ribbon goes slack
and your pinky has gone gangrenous from
the promises with sky-signs and horizon-forms
then the right words will have arrived at the wrong time.

and since the music may not hit this vital swell,
i will beg, can i phone an enemy
or at least a devil or his advocate?