Unto
Far deep into early morning I actually start hearing the things
I hear,
pen to ruled paper screeching faintly across that paper,
the notebook itself squeaking like a door always about
to open,
soprano vireos, cardinals zring-zringing like anonymous voices
sometimes did through slouching phone wires
in the little of childhood not yet disconnected,
it’s the notebook talking — it’s the notebook talking again — I’m not
going to say another word, I promise, quiet,
I’m writing here, I can’t speak to you, you’re someone else,
as these hands turning the pages in broad daylight are always
someone else’s,
someone who has never written a sentence in his life.
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