The part of me that fails
Is the part that writes a poem,
Carbon the mind exhales
From fire—when my fire is alone.
I seek no help; I am lover and judge—
As lover and judge are thought to be.
I tried the door—it wouldn’t budge.
The hours had elapsed. There was no key.
Is this frustrating? It should be.
If I cannot write this poem, I cannot live.
I did find some words. Otherwise, failure.
These words under the door are for her,
That she might forgive—
The best of me waits for an answer.