I'm writing you a novel
Out of poems.
It's not a novel, actually,
Because it's real.
It is a biography.
I am writing it RIGHT NOW
And you are reading it.
You are reading it as I write it.
It is not a biography, actually,
It is an autobiography
On account of the fact that
I AM WRITING IT.
If it were just a biography
ANYONE COULD WRITE IT,
It would just be loosely based on my life.
So it is an autobiographical account
OF SOMETHING FAKE.
(So that puts us back at novel, right? Fiction?)
This is entirely made up.
I am spinning you a yarn.
Spinning you in circles.
Your wrist is tied to my wrist with blue yarn
That is starting to itch a little.
We are tied together
And we are being swept out by the tide.
THE TIDE IS SWEEPING US OUT.
And we are, in turn, sweeping the sea
With our hands.
Sweeping the floor with brooms.
Weeping water, filling our tombs.
Drinking water;
Salt water.
