As trite and gray as words
become with time, my heart
becomes an ashen leaf
in fall; or kitschy art;

or something even deader,
as old coals, so far abstract
from life that words should give
them meaning; In fact,

that I might be troubled
to convey this worthless stuff,
I find the lackingness of language
barely dead enough.

Shaking trembling even as I write this--
is this that righteous anger of which
the pastor spoke last Sunday?  Is it
mere indignance?  It seems
as though a massive, sprawling
shadow of some unseen, overwhelming
thing.  Nakedly I hide my face,
am filled with dread in the presence
of this foreign beast, and pray it pass
by morning.

I am a dry well.  Tangleweeds
grow in my gut; spin there, growing;
rise in my throat and choke me; and
spill from my mouth, stretching somewhere.
Humans pass by me, offer glances,
then rescind them.  The young ones--
the little ones--stare longest.
Though in all my imaginings
I have not quite felt like a person,
I know the question in their minds:
"Why is that thing still there?
Nobody uses it anymore."