In this moment
along the beheaded
path of time
so begins
the book
of your life
whose words you
will conjure
without
asking permission,
and
without
ever learning the rules.
You will make them up
while turning
these coiled,
cocked,
ruined pages
and transcribe into them
the infinite whiteness
of the desperate night,
and this morning's
mourning
that tiptoes
between the
seconds
of you.
~New York - 9/19/01
