poems back artist cataloque

 
Where's my voice,
Really where?
Inside a crumpled paper sheet
Or in the spike
That tore apart the milkiness of nothingness
by a stroke,
Or in an autumn day
Amid the dried up meditations,
Or in a looking-glass
Between myself and round dances of reflections?
How could it break away,
That silently,
To you?
 
page 12