November 17, 2007


Pen. Hand. The blue
receipt of paper that bears.

How this world.
Writing to mark

tension of ink across white paper
tension of air moving across skin.

To punctuate the light curving
from blonde to deeper burnish—

tension against its fading, the back
of my spotted hand as it holds

across the page. How this time.
The gold fleck of human light.

There is no poem that is not about death.

—Nick Samaras

Posted by dwaber at November 17, 2007 03:33 PM