A Nonarrival

Munitions in place 
you were ready 
to strike. 

What you wanted to 
find out, I had 
found in my poems. 

It was the dark night― 
that becomes ink. 
I am writing in black letters. 

What was the 
obsessive cult of 
fingertips, holding the pen? 

Sometimes you look 
at you, when 
you were not you.