Poets Desk: On ostensible being

Grace Sanford

I want to be unidentifiable

unlocatable

 

I want to disappear to a place where there are no secrets

to recede so far until there is no me

until there is no is

 

When I arrive

she is already there

sitting at a table by the window

working in her notebook

 

Probably it’s linguistics or

necropolitics or

notes from rehearsal or

physiological methodologies

 

It’s a Thursday

we only have an hour for dinner

 

The words come slowly at first

then faster

faster

faster

 

We talk until it feels like all the words have been said

if only they had

if only they could be

if only we could glide into an impersonal sameness ontologically incompatible with analyzable egos

 

If not but for preference

psychic content— 

repressed conflicts

on top of

developmental explanations

 

Alas there she is

there I am

there is

is