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HUGH
STEINBERG
Diary
I
want to be
intricate
inside
you
I want to open
the
little book
of
you. That library
you live in, I
check
you out.
Rustdark
readings
by
the starfilled lake:
all
here, every page
no
one was reading.
I
like to read,
even
the hard stories,
the
wrong words, I hold them
in
my mouth, the odd words
we
use for want, that
no
one knows
how
to say, not even
you,
a key gets
turned.
We were locked,
between
the stale earth and
the
sky, the key turns the lock
between
you and
you,
the key turns the ground,
the
ground is set each successive
hour
of the day,
the
book is opened, goes dark
as
night sinks down, down into
the
well of the heart:
we
have lost nothing,
nothing
is lost. 
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