“Just write,” I said
but they looked at me with dread
before filling their cups with words
and then we poured
together our word-hoard
into something particularly absurd.
“Remember our goal,”
I cried to your hole from my hole,
“We can stitch it together later”
but this Frankenstein of ours
his face looks sour
and he’s got the eyes of a traitor.
Perhaps I’m too eager
to place the meager
words there on the page
but surely these words are proof — breath
ideas that’ve already been talked to death
like Lazarus returning to the stage.