Rituals of Language

Yes, the fog has lifted.

I can almost think again.

Mostly about words,

what remains of them,

where they are stored.

No doubt it is January,

outside the trees strip

like bodies.

Though I fear storms,

I like their aftermath.

I scribble this down-

my handwriting too old,

in fact too young,

to still be mine.

But who else will claim it?

I did not want to be

mysterious to myself,

and so comprehensible

to the city. This city

that smells like fried eggplant

and gasoline,

impossible to scrub off.

If only I leave it alone.

If only you ask where it hurts.

I'll point to my throat.

Or your face. How they ask

for more than I can give.