I don’t know or do I now what I might be up to and/or through with here with this here writing of unwriting of mine. I have in mind a weapon or a song, a wound or paragraph, an olive branch for use in flagellating mostly me. It’s mostly me I’m warring, writing, singing, graphing at agrapple with me mostly and my angels better/otherwise. There’s wisdom in my silence that I try to reach through incoherent wordliness, a sound so dense it’s silent maybe. A cloud so worried with words it thunders mutely, storms inward so that out it goes. I don’t know or do I now what might I may be fighting when I’m quiet. Then there’s this with no quick in it, but thick much like my mind.