(about 1992)
crowded in the back
bothered
because the directions
fade up front into the
still air
before they go in one ear
and out the other
some days
I could stop
drop my pen
and escape
some days the passages flow forever
into heavenly euphony
with perfect parallelism pitching alliteration
passing assonance perhaps-- always
but then, it's so easy
I cannot yet name
today
excepting the negative connotation
why can't they
keep their distance
and their words
and let me have mine?
why? can't the voices
stop buzzing-- annoying
voices
writing, though
has freed me-- partly
but the open door
still calls my name
