Today, I fix the past with knives and forks.
I grasp then carve. I grab until my hands
are full and nail a feast of question marks
along the wall. The handle smashes nails
and plaster, masonry and paint; the brick
beneath the surface breathes out orange dust.
The question marks lie broken on the floor;
they could not stay in place. I pick them up
and rearrange each broken line till words
appear. I rearrange them once again,
then twice, then three times, over and over, shaping
new words: the infinite variety
of answers. Standing back, I look again,
and see that all I have are question marks.
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