Every crumpled page says the same thing;
Once there was a man who needed nothing.
so let me start again.
having broken my bones against the wall,
which was again unmoved; having pulled
a thousand mornings in through a cigarette
I concede, to the blank page in a still typewriter.
that I must abandon revision, for a new draft,
to find the words which I’ve worked to polish dead.
Tell the real beginning now or the false one forever.
Tell what you’ve hidden, what your shadow says;
Once there was a boy who needed one thing.