written words are obsolete
before the pen hits the page
before the ink dries on the page,
like spoken words are lies
before the sound dies in the air.
a new white sheet of paper
with no ideas, recites to me all the words
that say nothing about my body
or my city, just forever shielding
lists of words describing trains.
empty metaphors are my motionless lips
and all these terms of
language are merely a motionless pen
poised to write, the choice of passing
the faulty abstraction for the apt.
some call this communication.