a traveller’s encyclopaedia(or winter song)

long have i wondered who(out

of winter nights, chilly breezes)has

seen all that’s to be seen in my tentative,

tense words — nodded along&hummed&sighed;

touched the edge of the paper,as i do,softly.

unfurling slowly my words,i’ve asked

&then regretted it,because it feels(i might
 not need answers)incredibly intimate.

long have i dropped my own name,my voice —

all these things,yes, &myself, slowly.

there are unknowns my language doesn’t touch

(&in truth, my verse has long become someone else’s),

oneday i was saying”i’ve found me” then the next

…the next saw me bewildered.all my words amiss

as i picked up this new pen&paper(blue ink,never liked it.)

long have i wondered if now,with phrases i’ve

all but plucked from the ground,my verses are growing;

i’d like them to be very old trees(i know it wouldn’t do ,for

this rebirth is for tiny bushes.)but i am stubborn.

and that i’ve never been,because the word never fit.

out of winter nights,chilly breezes(&now i know

what a chill is,this is new),words hit windows as leaves —

and i hope my voice is my own.a beat &another,

i, i with someone else inside, an i that greets me from afar

,i hope my tentative words have become more solid.

long have i wondered whether i’ve known them or their meaning.

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