On the page
Words.
Three words
Now five
Equal to the ink. Indescribable to the soul.
Like blood of an alien kind
impressed on our parchment.
This sharp mystery of life abounding from our fingertips
Onto empty space.
That held nothing
and is
Now full
to you.
Look at me
I wave a hand
and you do too.
Yet off you go to count your shoes.
Perhaps they're green or red or blue.
But I shall never care or know
You dropped your fingers
much too slow.
And thought to turn around and say--
but then you went the other way.
No comments:
Post a Comment