Often, I write on top of the
stove's hotplates—elements?—
and leave the notebook there
overnight

the question is: will it burn?
in the morning, it is cold
paper, coldly scribbled on

the next night I do the same
thing trap of the child
and man will you, won't

you turn on by yourself, do
you, don't you say something
almost entirely

almost immortal, lost among
causes and first spoken
moments become

the last are unwritten in
a mazy motion above
ground

what did I think language
did, as I grew up well,
it pulled me into

and out-of, upwards-of
and downwards-of, the
side-by-side, serpentine friendship

I've known many but few
did more than repeat themselves
the others disappeared into language,

divided from wholeness, they
are, in their language,
desirous and sightful

awesome, sweet labourers
of something