I wouldn’t want

to write with a pen

filled with prehistoric

animal bone. I wouldn’t want

to know how it got there

instead of somewhere

it might serve a purpose.

If I could see the fingerprints

left on my heart, would they

serve a purpose?

I wouldn’t want

to wait for an answer.

I wouldn’t want to crack a joke

about sewers without

mentioning how to push pure

silk thread through a manhole.

I wouldn’t want to wait

anymore. I would interrupt you

one more time to declare

my vow of silence begins now.

I wouldn’t want to smile here—

then I would elsewhere.