"Self-Portrait at 31: 14th St., again."

In Law, we talk about “unpacking”
language. Some jurists explain
issues they have analyzed
with an algebraic economy
of words. Some judges
build these tiny fortresses with only
one door in and only one door
out. And our job is to follow, and
map, and apply the lessons of
the Escher etchings encased
in the meat of these woven walnut shells
that the very very wise construct
for their daily bread and, one assumes, their
daily distraction from
the inevitable ink:

This is what I have been trying to do-
all these many years- build some
truth- bigger on the inside, than the outside, but
all I seem to be able do
is unpack:

So, this year I moved away, again, reveals:

My love, reveals:

My black stones and my cherry
pits, spilled across the sky, indicates:

My attic and my avenue, folds into:

all in my belly, all in my cells.

And so:
All I have is myself; And,
that having is so very very brief.

And further:
Nothing will come with me, not even
my poetry will come with me.

And: Not even my life’s works.

And: Not even the chirpity-chirp.

Unpacked, sounding at the ink
a bell cannot unring.

June, 2009, Atlanta.