If I Have Run Out Of Weapons
to shake at the page, the blank world, it is not because I am empty. My hands are always full of something, but when the hammers and pins are lost numb fingers can still be very clever. I have been at the buckles today, the straight jackets done up, white like empty worlds; and I have been knitting ferocious spiders to spin their webs across the ceiling. I have tickled the belly of the three headed dog, and now I'm working at picking out this knot: a tangle of failures as smooth as oiled secrets, as tight as a garotte around the throat of an angel, balanced on the head of a pin; there are other dangers just as sudden that can spring from my curious fingers; and while I am working at undoing this potential for savage reunion with the world, which is as empty as it was in the beginning, puzzle this: my dreams were never violent, but they promised that all things will come.
