A ROOM OF INCOMPLETIONS
I know a place where nothing is finished:
where antique fountain pens by the hundreds
wait for their little nibs to be fastened on with precision
so they can ink-up empty pages with
ornate aphorisms and swirling witticisms;
where keyboards and computers hold in their ebony
and ivory,
their hard drives and motherboards,
half-composed ballads and rock operas
that would put an avalanche
and the sound of rain to
shame;
where lamps, in their final design, would lean
into indecision and doubt and turn on
like a parrot squawking the word spark;
where sculptures, myriad figures, bearing
the press of fingerprints in the brown of the clay,
are poised to receive the bold gestures they would
make
if only their arms could find them.
I know this place like an orphanage,
like a room I rent,
like a part of myself I can’t know.
One day I will tunnel my way through
these incompletions like a convict
bursting through a cornfield
and there before me will be a river
waiting, weeping, smiling like a bride.
