I haven’t written a poem in days
Haven’t read a poem in days
Haven’t thought about a poem in days
I do think about things that are not poems
This is one of them
Trust me if you can
But right words in right order
Right scheme to put one over
Left turn from one world to glimpse another
These are lost to me now
Damn near fifty years of making this my self
It has been my self for over half a century
Words used to tumble up against the locks
Banging themselves with whole body against them until I opened
The knocking of both ghouls and angels have ended
All my mirrors are covered
with black leather glued to the glass
All I can see is my damned shadow
crossing back and forth as I pace before them
I haven’t sat with that shadow in a dead dog’s lifespan
For so long this room was rich with light
I haven’t turned around to see where the light comes in
It might be a crack or it might be a candle
lit on the altar inside the front door of this tomb
Keep at it the people outside are shouting through the door
Keep at it they are shouting it will be rich with light again
Flooded even
So much light again you will be glowing with it
It will come from under your skin
We need you we need you we need you we need you
more than you need to be yourself 
As for myself
there’s not much to say or see
beyond my disquiet at this quiet 
I haven’t written a poem in days
This isn’t one
To point out contradictions
to a man without vision enough to see them
is a cruelty you ought to keep to yourself
Let me be blinded and deafened before you
Let’s see if I can make something without my self
and learn whether I am visible or audible
to anyone
without being again
who I have been