out on the tundra

the frozen voices of bodies
limbs frozen
waiting for the thaw
wondering what it is to write
what to write
writing of the spirits
orchestrating words
some fluid as a drippy faucet
wrapping round others taut as
my frozen vocal chords
i wish i could write like
someone else
like anyone else
like some particular people
i will not name
but are several
i wish
i could write the things
other people write
but then
it wouldn't be so good
since i woulda writ it
not them
and then
what would i wanna write
if what i read was as bad as
what i write
a scrap of a life
bankrupt of spirit
nameless
lunacy decaying in the night
strong.
a still life
shuffling through the bad places
dancing out the windows
with a pint to go.
what to write
of what spirits
these are the questions to which i've no answers
it seems
but perhaps the point
is
there are none
a vision or poetry
seen from afar
means nothing more than not