To promise the poet atonement is
To promise more than you know….
It is a kind of suicide
The bliss of the bleeding throat—
A kind of assassination or…
Why am I hereright now
In this room?
I don’t even know what I came to the kitchen to get—
It wasn’t a knife or a glass of anything.
Was it the question I find unsought
between the dirty dishes and compost?
If I can’t remember what I was after, why
can I remember that there was a quest
and I was on it?