We traffic in words
their fuse and pop and darting light
the mad electric parade
becomes our mind,
a
reaching out as we revel
in making thought from old
with the scrambling hop of fingers
pressing into the grease-proof clay
always springing back and forth
between new, never and timeworn delight.
O, how we revel knowing words.
Touching, they merge
to trip us beyond,
and even meeting at the intersection
of silence and confusion, staring
blankly
distraught because the lights haven’t bloomed
again and all our moves are governed
by the same recursive loops
drummed into us,
no matter. True enough.
No matter these,
when the boundless sky swirls here
and there at once
enough that you know what I mean
in your own words.
