When I say I don't see myself coming back, I mean there seems nothing left that could claim me. Perhaps this is another way of saying what's passed through me has made me a sieve, has cut its passage through steel and mesh veils, has made a tattered flag out of a tapestry. The last time I did return, I was told it was a transaction, routine business, some form of calculation. I puzzled that idea in my head but it refused to take up residence. What I remember is still vivid as trumpet flowers, furious as the sky's red tint at evening or the boil of mosquitoes anointing exposed skin.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
