Différance

You keep, the French-toasted sung guns in your arms,
trigger happy finger-children,
pestled in with la verdad,
(ven, te voy a mostrar)
the back-hand upside-swept confusion
of a distant man writing in a chamber,
not a room, far from a room,
but one where there's no one there but
the remainer of five hundred and eleven evenly
spaced out feathers, torn
from a place no longer as light.

Let us pull the curtains back.

The day finds me new,
waiting still on this chair,
waiting-wondering actually
what they day will bring
now that it's found me.


Therein lies my delay, my fossé,
my lacune,
my différance.


Hm. All I wanted to do was say différance.
It's a buzzword.