What kind of things

can go inside a poem

then? well

draperies and

fine cut marble

dressed with flowers and

the ribbon

from your hair
No one wears ribbons

anymore, no one

Not even you

I made up the ribbon

because it seemed

like the poem

was asking for it
They said later

he was asking for it

after the accident that

cut up his face

A disfiguration

seems to suggest that

the language used

to describe something has

failed

It couldn’t be figured

as in to draw a figure

or to draw blood

Aren’t we all just

asking for it

But there was no accident

and no one’s

face was

cut

up

I made it up

Why, I wonder, is this poem

asking these things

Posing them here

a ribbon, your hair

a thin ribbon of blood

from a face I can’t see

and you can’t see

None of this is real

There must be something

I’m getting at

otherwise why

write at all
What I’m asking is for

some neat summation

or turn of phrase

to save me here

To rescue me from this poem

A couplet that gives you

a flutter like something has

come alive inside you

I want to be alive inside you

but I can’t, because

you

are not real, you wear

ribbons and the accident

was on purpose
A thin ribbon of blood

on old stone

If you rub your hand

on the stone

you can still feel the ridges

where the chisel cut

It hasn’t been smoothed out

The stone is red marble

your hand rests on an edge

You think this is your body

old stone, old words

cut out of you

I wanted to figure you

out

But I can’t