A Poet in a Room
Lance Le Grys
Lance Le Grys Page 1
a poet in a room writes the word I
then stares at the single letter on the page
cast into sudden doubt as to its meaning

the blankness of the page seems to expand
until he stands alone upon a plain
vast white and featureless but for the letter
he wrote so confidently on its surface

I was that I he says aloud his voice
awakening no echoes in the distance
he stares and strains his ears but still hears nothing

yet here I am he turns back to the I
and it is other than I was when writing
it lies objective on the page before him

and who was it I was speaking to he wonders
no echoes yet return from the white distance

it may be just one letter in a word
he thinks and then it is no longer I
but even if it stands alone who speaks it
whose echo is it I return so
his eyes he pictures the blank plain before him
and it seems now that its distance is contained
a horizon has encircled what was formless
what lies beyond the horizon may be sought

invigorated now he pushes forward
confidently leaving the I behind
to pierce the supposed boundaries of his vision
the whiteness has become thick snow so cold
it rises in clouds like dust its crystals glittering
and striking sharp the soft skin of his face
it fills in his track like a wake behind a ship