small words
can find us
a place to grip
that truth which slips
through our hands.

do not reach for
hard words that
use more than one breath
to get to the point;

few of us
have a clue as to how
to cut through the smoke
they give off and get to
a clear view of
what we seek.

tell the tale that should be told
in small tight words
and see what should be seen.
seize it at once.

then, with one hand
clenched tight on the scruff
of the neck of what we’ve caught,
we can call it as we see it in short
bursts, tell it
to stay or go, beg it to live or die,
and we know it will get what we say;

and we will know that what it does next
is what it should do and there is no
chance it did not get what we meant to say
of what it meant to us.

we can go home when we are done
and know we did what we could.
we will not cheer or cry. we will say:

small words can save or kill.
what they make clear stays clear.
what they kill stays dead.
what life they save shines.

too much to pick up and pack up.
knives and guitars, too many of each.
books and magazines and paper to sort.
clothes to donate, discard, fold, burn.
until now i did not realize
how much life i’ve lived alone in this room.

the bed goes, the table goes,
the flute, the hairbrush, the drugs go.
i ought to be able to find
some more of myself under all this
once I’m done, but what there is of me
wants to just up
and go, leave it all behind.
i don’t care to be that much more
than what i am
anymore.

question: how many knives
does one man need? question: how many
guitars does one man need? question:
how many books, poems, clothes,
does he need?

answer: apparently, enough of each
to make him forget all the others
for a while.

i want to close this door behind me
and run weeping from this house
until i lose everything, and that’s
where i’ll settle down.