I can never

bring my passion to language: 

I read like the departing footsteps 
of a stranger

the torn petal 
of a still blooming flower,

or like a nightmare recalled 
without its fear.

I read stillborn and stale
& of many miscarriages of intent.

Can I replace each word
with a finger print?

I wish I read like coal 
spitting sparks from its grave

or like an icicle
sealing its fate 
to a tongue

But I write 
to chase myself away,

I know that 
my heart, a scar worn axe 
dreams of splintering

the word.