How else to tell you
of the movement of
the universe that sets my world to tilt?
Where spatial acuity and intuitive thinking fall down
at the feet of blank spaces and odd numbers begging
I scratch for description of the structure of blue ink
on pulp paper . . .
the humidity of black seas on windless nights,
the way my lips sometimes speak
in dry dust
For the latitude of line and length, the way I like
how they intersect, conjoin,
tear apart . . . forever changed
of further locution
And still I dream
I can hear the world
running out of time and tolerance for
. . . for small minds ~
The measure of meter and moments
sit in whimpering, drying ink
falling off the edge of sense and
How else to tell
who cannot hear?