| A Poet in a Room Lance Le Grys |
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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 |
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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 closing 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  |
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