i face the wall
and mourn the stack
of fallen trees.
i had killed them,
ignored their calls,
and silenced their falls.
but i cannot choose now
to lose my sight,
for their corpses
i've laid right here.
old deaths and new deaths,
i have murdered them all,
with their bent corners
and clean innocence torn.
now i refuse
to pay them respect,
unwritten eulogies
among the foggy,
uneasy minutes
and days, caught
and destroyed
in traffic accidents
where the warning
honking sounds droned
on and on,
the cars nowhere to be seen.
if only i can honor them
loudly enough
to mute their ghosts'
moaning in me,
to erase the records
of my guilty fingerprints,
the unsteady writing
documenting
their unwilling sacrifices
and thudding screams,
if i can convince myself
to cruelly make believe
they've kept their dignity
in this very long afterlife.
perhaps i am capable
of doing so (quietly!),
to justify robbing their graves
and stealing their diamonds,
pearls and rubies,
(sapphires and emeralds
need not apply),
then (quickly!) restore them
to their peace...
but i cannot write
this twelve-page paper.
so these books, their ideas,
lie wasted, ruined, latent,
their souls twice cursed
and many times damned,
all, of course, thanks to me.
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