zora said there are years that have answers 

but I can only find them in fugitive windows of time 

night constellations stringing my insomnias

into a garland 

of anxieties that begged articulation

pleaded with me to chase the frames

to find the ways of seeing 

(did we ever learn to do that?)

until one moment one night perhaps an incipient morning even as if those demarcations absolve us of something 

something breaks quietly imperceptibly and gently spills 

an offering at my feet 

a surfeit of words

that write me