Poem #8: Unbound

A woman tears pages from a book at the quarry’s edge.
They flutter flock-like, haphazardly down—
the story unbound, set loose from chronology, freed
from plot, untold, chapters and sentences perhaps too
complex now abandoning grammatical sense
and the mechanics of it all. Concentrate:
hear the mournful music of characters torn apart,
their goodbyes, revising themselves mid-page, mid-fall,
mid-way down. Will you wake before they hit?
The scene is too quiet, like writer’s block, more silent
than a blank page or another person’s wordless dream,
more disquieting than award-winners on nightstands.
Her dress is blowing, her hair reminds you of something
you forgot to jot down. Perhaps she is someone you’ve met,
if only you could see her face. It may have been Neruda
or Hemingway or Synergy in the Work Setting—
or something she wrote for you, to amuse, to whisper
into your ear while you sleep. Nurtured word by word
over the years, by the same hands now liberating it
on its non-linear path. Or perhaps she is a lover,
unleashing out of anger, the novel of her true love,
and any second, she will swoon with regret and throw
herself hopeless after it, or use the final page to wipe away
her tears. Ah, who cares! A voice from the sky needles:
It was probably no good. Now the pages are bound
in different directions, while she stares at empty hands,
as if she could puzzle back together what she’s done.
At her feet, a page cowers, crumpled, dismembered.
Does she think there is a way to undo, unwrite, unread,
unknow what’s been said? It’s heartbreaking how she sways
back and forth. Doesn’t she know? Hasn’t she learned? In daylight,
some stories just can’t hold themselves together properly.