On Happier Lawns, XIX

I shake a notebook of empty
pages and say, It’s all in here   
Every word of it    Dead dogs and stolen
property    Embraced
debauchery    For 35 years I had
no story to tell    Only words
in need of form    Every breath
a bomb    An infinite
space to fill    I see now that death
is just an idea    A very real
idea    As much an ethos as
aesthetic    Textured
sadness    Language etched
into fiber optics    Which is to say, light