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The words you never wrote, I pick at one;
the edge comes up like a wet scab, a plague pit
fathoms under, air starts to hiss in
as radiation throbs out: I wasn’t supposed to look.
Now something is punctured, irreversible, and now
green light from a warship searches the walls,
sends shadows fleeing, I wrote words over and over
the gap but they don’t take, only to keep writing,
to make a fine mesh across a wound
that is widening might do,
to lay a twig suture over the crack that splits
my white page, divides the table,
slices the house, carries on to halve the world...
This dreadful things I have done, I have done
but where were you to warn me?
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