Issue 156, Fall 2000
We live in the heart of what can't be said.
These messages we are dying to deliver, to whisper
to you, reader, you beloved, you nations of the dead
begin dear someone, dear anyone, lie folded
like flowers. In shyness, we hunch our shoulders,
our hearts alive with what can't be said:
It's my thirty-ninth birthday and all day my head
has spun with the poems I'll write forever
to you, reader, you beloved, you nations of the dead.