*Final word of each line is taken from the poem "The Pool" by H.D
You begin to wonder if you are
from a clean palette, so pale. Did you
used to be a ghost, before alive?
You also begin to wonder if I
was so out of touch
with the lines in your hands that you
carved from hearing my voice quiver.
Out of kindness, you ask, what it's like
to fear dusk more than dawn, a
curiosity only we know, not sea-fish
swimming in darkness. You see, I
also wonder what answer could cover
all your questions. Can you
help me find a way to cope with
not knowing why my
thoughts end up caught in a net
then wiggle out what
looks like windows and are
open to you
but are banded
as one?
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