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Playing Dead

ISSUE:  Autumn 1984

Who will write this poem?
Don’t ask the silence.
It doesn’t answer anyone.
Don’t ask the alphabet, sound

asleep again.
Don’t ask the pen.
It is out of thought and ink.
What will we write it with?

Don’t ask the pencil either,
It has a broken point.
And the eraser can only erase.
If you asked it,

it would say that it wants
the world to disappear.
So how much can we say?
Ideas have wings and fly away.

There isn’t much to say
about the lack of meaning.
I have a feeling that cleverness
never will show up.

Will it make us happy or sad?
Don’t ask emptiness to smile.
In a poem without a message,
every word is playing dead.


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