hi, my name is… bleak and i am
a poet. anonymous as i would be
if i were handing down a word
from an auctor that i have found
myself attached to, somehow
forgotten, a long time gone,
i am regaining that first person
singular i was supposed to be,
the once abandoned punctuation,
and the disorderly grammar
of everyday expectations.
perhaps i am still a bit afraid
of capital letters. the odd burden
of solemnity attached to them
neither blends with absurdity
of the rituals around closing doors,
nor does it soothe all yearnings
for a little peace of belonging.
but in the scheme of things,
if what actually matters here
is essence over appearance,
i may still have a word to say.
hidden pilcrow 