Listen, I have a blue pain
inside of me. You don’t see it.

Because it comes in slowly
                    as a sound.

You’re not listening:
it enters like a hand

up a skirt. It is my letter to you
without a single feeling in it.

The hand is connected to a man.
And I don’t like the way you look at him.

Maybe you don’t like it either. The hum
of the amplifier begins

as a drone in the
corners. It is the hum that

gets louder but still you don’t hear it.
I do not know how to show this to you.

Sometimes I don’t see it
either (on a roadtrip through the shadows and

mountains, hooked up
in the lining of your bed). And why would I

show you when the drone goes down
reduced in the simmer of love or art.

I mean to say that you’re
perfect for me, etc. No, no.

What I mean to say is I am submerged
by the desire to make or create.

Can you hear me? You’re not listening.
We’re all, after all, just light & sound.

There is a hand going up your skirt.
Can you hear me? Maybe you don’t like it, either.