I told my soul,“You are free nowand can leave wheneveryou feel like itfor I will keep on writing,for I will keep ondiscarding myself.”—I write, “The sea,”and throw away its shore.I write, “The tree,”and chop off its sky.I write,“The rope dangling fromdarkness will executethe enjambment of everything.”—I glance at a crumpled paperwhirling gracefully in the wind.Has the Earth, too, been writtenby someone and then cast away?I write, “A wound,”and cover it with anotherfrom my past.For I have witnessedthe sky growing bluerwhen tortured;the sea, deeper,when tormented.I write, “Door,”and open it so thatyou can come in.I write,“Your solitude has yetto retire from you,” so that youcan fathom the meaning of solitude.I write, “Time,”and read, “Anything thatwouldn’t age has left us graying.”—I watch the last of snowflakes,the last of lines rainingdown on me.Ah, the winter of paper sheets,will the poem brewing inside memelt you away?