why i write.

Nov 11, 2007 - 18:23 PM PST

Why I write.

When I was younger I thought everything had already been explained.
The Answers were catalogued in a giant dusty book somewhere and
Had been set in ink centuries ago. As I grew I learned that I was the book
And so I began to write to fill the blank pages that were my bones.
Cool as silk I slipped between the lines and invented whole planets
And reasons for color and names of kings and queens, and these became
My veins. I rode on the backs of black horses and dove to the bottom of
a huge ocean, beneath the fish where all the secrets swam.
In the mirror I became thicker and grew flesh and eyes and hair, and
Words were my breath and my voice quivered when I spoke,
like waves of summer heat rising off a tawny green hill.

Everything cannot be answered but everything can be written.
My nights have grown shadowy and dense with feeling and loss,
As my flesh has hardened and softened again. Soon I will begin
The smooth descent of a book past its middle; I will be closing for a long time.
We all end as bones, as words, spread on silk to dry
in the light and heat of a hot afternoon.