Here is my page, half darkness, half silence, hoping
To find at last the way to you I could not find.
Those things I said in drunkenness, in rage or love. Like water, it holds its drowned who are without names.
Like time, it was just a way of passing the time. It lied now and then—I confess—for your pleasure:
Some misguided aim of overcompensation For what was not only enough but too much.
Reliance upon language was its undoing… . But someday it will be all that is left of me.
Death bothers its margins like gulls along some shore. Tucson, Arizona—March 20, 1990