Untitled - April 4, 2001

The delicate balance between
here and not here
wavers every time
I stop and listen
for the words that are
inevitable -
harshly grating
on the nerves.

Like an unsightly blemish,
it is both blatant
and ignored at the same time.

I hear it,
but I don't hear it,
it's the same few words
that carve away
at the block of ice
that remains rigid
even at the height of summer.

The block is just a misnomer-
iceberg, or even, the barren deserts
of the north,
where there are seven hundred words for snow.

In the end, 
the number of words don't matter,
just the number of times they're heard -
once more into the breach,
leaping across a chasm
that grows just a bit
further apart.