From somewhere the question comes:
how so?
There's ink in my saliva.
I'm scratching the surface
of the moon with a poem rising.
Do not mourn for me, never yet born,
don't you hear my silence out there
in the stardust, expanding infinity?

I am only a figment of your imagination,
locked inside
your living perception, isolated by needy words.
You'll never know the real me, unless you know
the real you, waves that touch the sun
must first unclench
their grasp of sea.

And this is the way the river flows. This is the way the
sun melts the distance between us.

And this is so.