In Defense of Poetry

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 and weep at the feet of blank spaces and odd numbers begging direction 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 yet spent of further locution And still I dream I can hear the world running out of time and tolerance for small words . . . for small minds ~ The measure of meter and moments sit in whimpering, drying ink falling off the edge of sense and sensibility How else to tell you who cannot hear?