• Is this the verse 
• that unfolds me? Must I 
• listen to its secrets; must I
• let it watch me? 

• Is this the verse that is overworked,
• the one that is read and 
• read over
• and left blistered
• like the foot that no shoe will fit

• painlessly? 
• Is this the verse in which
• I reveal too much, inadvertently? 

• Is this the verse 
• in which I recognise myself?
• And then recognise myself 
• shaping up
• my recognised self? 

• Is this the verse 
• in whose shape I find 
• an unfamiliar memory? Are its 
• edges a liability? Are they

• those that cut my fingers 
• as I hold them
• to the light, or do they 
• dissolve into the body, consecrated? 

• Is this the line that will 
• kiss my bleeding hands?

• Is this the verse that I cannot write,
• restlessly reappearing in 
• anything but words,
• cold from my neglect?

Is this the verse in which I break a promise?