Circa 1987?

Invention

When I lay you down on this crisp, white sheet,

Do I create you,

Or you, me?

When I force this instrument across your face,

Do I leave my mark,

Or just yours?

----------------------

Paints on the easel --

Bullets in the gun --

A history,

A catastrophe,

A memory left for posterity.

----------------------

So, if I want to keep you in purity,

Me in unfulfilled possibility,

I must handle carefully

That which I will thrust my name upon.