In Your School

We dead would awaken except we can’t anymore.

No more
do our faces relax
or our eyes set on fixed points.
All points are scattered and blinding.

We need the words that were taken
if we are to write them down.
We need our own words that have no end
but only begin
And not this language that begins
as if it were ending ceaselessly.

This new tongue gives no sense of losses
but only that we lost something
there.
And again there.

Our pencils attempt to trace these marks
to curve some lines
to make some body.

But we don’t know anything
except this business
of searching for things           touchable
and must write in ways          untouchable
with another voice.

In your school we feed ourselves
on disbelief that we are eating.

I am in the hall of your school,
because that is where it ends
and again
because where it ends
something begins

please, again.

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