Here is my page, half darkness, half silence, hoping
To find at last the way to you I could not find.

It contains all my boredom, sickness, and desire,
Those things I said in drunkenness, in rage or love.

Like water, it holds its drowned who are without names.
Like time, it was just a way of passing the time.

It lied now and then—I confess—for your pleasure:
Some misguided aim of overcompensation

For what was not only enough but too much.
Reliance upon language was its undoing… .

But someday it will be all that is left of me.
Death bothers its margins like gulls along some shore.

Tucson, ArizonaMarch 20, 1990

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 17 Number 1, on page 30
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