The experiences we share,
the already known,
not only feeds, but is already, the poem.
The creative chips away, reducing what we already know
to 'audience and show,'
changing the quick years into moments which are slow.
Performances are how the others know.
But reality belongs to you alone---
the cold wind blowing
outside the poem.
Losing you was the worst defeat, the biggest disgrace.
Pathetic poem! O ignorance!
Words on a face.