i’m tired and i want,
and what i want
isn’t what i know,
but i’ll write
and talk about things,
and i don’t know
anything,
but i’ll say to you
how much i cannot say
and you’ll ask why,
when all i know is must
and my body must defend
itself against the death
of empty space.
i ride past the dead,
my horse veering,
so receptive
to other
atmospheres.
i look up
into the vaquero’s eyes, how you
flick the reins
with moody hands.
12.16.03
poetryandpoet 