The Paradox of Writing

A kitten plays beneath the fountains and citrus trees
under the butterflies of a Moroccan rest stop
coffee and a pen and paper connected to the 
wish to vanish, to not-quite-erase the memory

that there was something once called i that 
appeared under the light of a sun's intensity 
to turn to sand, as it all does with enough
fire and time and the space between grains

make the argument for silence; yet we 
disappear in our attempts to go quieter 
than the universe knows how, because there
is no nothingness without somethingness and

you see the contradiction and determine
to avoid the hypocrisy and do not avoid it;
sometimes my scribbles, always a lowercase g,
the most beautiful letter pressed into service on

top of the prose that almost said something
but was drowned out by the silence and noise
feeding the heartbeat of the birdsong and the 
crashing of the waterfalls that won't dampen 

the desert until it all goes to water and then
back again to words and sentences and dust.

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