That’s why you marked it with your pencil. Made an asterisk. Boxed-it in. Put a “!” in the margin. Framed the page in sentences.
Fleshlings.
My real question is why.
It’s nervy acknowledging the meaning; acknowledging what meant what to whom.
I feel the sacrifices. The sacrifice of pen on paper.
It has merits – the linear sense – as does the non-linear. It’s in those pauses.
What happens to them after?
Conceiving forever with a sense of nothing in the actual. Actualizing or conceiving. Forevering the actuality of conceiving a story inside you. (Is nothing in the real.?)
Ask: When she bleeds; do we?
Ask: When he breaks down?
Ask: And when the great mill floods?
Whatever tangent takes you to this page or that, takes you further along the trail. Exploring the page. Each crumbed finger; each dusted tip all carry the breath into the crux of it. The spine. We are pioneering the book: you and me. (Yes, the you of the book)
I can remember the earliest accident. It was in my hand. It was in my heart. It was here, and here. And, even there. The early accident of fascination.
We are forced to see ourselves in fragments: chapter titles; small quips; asides.
Refashioning life to find the stealth. To find the not-words between the words.
We are to start again. Here. Inside the page.
Behind the ink.
Behind the not-electric.
The not-wired.
In this page,
Or that.
Here, on this edge –I feel a pulse.
I can feel that.
© Umansky 2011
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blog of poet, leah umansky 
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