Our Voice Was Never Really Yours

The words of writers are always strung out,
Bridging the gorgeous darkness of the world
And the tender ugliness of humans.

To one side rise awe-inspiring terrors,
Making the writer giddy. The other
Side lies all the writer’s own and others’

Anxious, needy, warm-blooded beastliness.
And here we are, not in-between, the lines
Sketched over in-betweens, girders singing.