I'm not going to delete all the spaces in here, because there was a pattern for the poem. A correct form that will probably not even come out right on here, but it's worth trying. (Now that I've checked, I know it didn't come out quite right. Close enough though, I guess.) Just a working title as of yet. I almost contradicted myself by not giving it a title... It's just that I don't even know how worth-while one would be for this here poem. How's that fer yer hillbilly talk? Be well, y'all.

evidence

some of them, man-

kind, born eunuchs;

some made so by men; and still others—

chosen, choose it— but I still haven’t

found what

I’m looking for. some lines,

haunting that way; some

themes—recur and please;

some words forgotten,

come back

and I look at myself:

aged. broken

teeth; chipping bones,

—not done yet. remember, I’m

. here. where I am,

that’s someplace, too.

the pencil I’ve carried

around so long—it’s so dulled down,

my beavered tree.

but, that’s its use—not

just pocketed lead.

making it up, I make room.