In your own words

We traffic in words
their fuse and pop and darting light
the mad electric parade
becomes our mind,
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
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.

Souvenirs for the indecisive (16 June)

these words have been seen before
in precisely this order,
even with the same breaks
lined up in perfect unison.

So why retrace these routes, hand-draw
mirrored lines to create word-for-word
consuming one thin strip,
a whole half-page?

Perhaps you were enchanted with its birdsong
or simply left wordless, caught spellbound
in an unexpected blink
whose shock you wanted to remember.

So you lift it casually, a quick snap
without thinking traced in teen scrawl
a soon misremembered notebook,
inevitably discarded and

my one hope
is that the song
still echoes.