Ink
Sits lonely in the well
I ask her,
“What thoughts are trapped in your eyes?”
Or so, as I suppose, they were stuck behind mine
Will the bird not sing?
Will the moon not shine?
Does the sun also rise, or do those tiny lies sink like late daylight?
Does the poet wish to say a thousand things unsaid?
I thought I’d seen that once, in a Hopper
In Morning Sun
Unless I’d read her wrong as well
My monument to loneliness
My thousand songs, not sung
My words, unsaid, unwritten
That I so desperately, so longingly
Wish would be read
Without touching the paper