Introduction to burning manuscripts

Introduction to burning manuscripts

The new poem will contradict
The old poems
And that’s the way it ought to be
Language needs a Spring

For words have a barren
Way with winter anyhow
As a poet unfond
Of their own speaking voice
Forced to talk to themselves

By virtue of necessity
I to the past poets must cry
The tears of other words
For I no longer have the breath
To erase the margins
To edit the voice

Whose possible meanings
Are so many
There’s always doubt

On the tip of the tongue
Maybe everything stated
Is completed erased in our subjectivity
In the time it takes

To be expressed and
The time it takes to be read aloud
When it no longer rings true
The new poem, let it hang there
A ghost, an extract, a fragment

For forever, I don’t read
Old poems, I only live to write.


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