Whose idea was it?
to ink a surface into meaning?
transfer ideas mind to mind this way?
Whose idea was it?
Some stark-raving mad angel left me here to make up strings of
thought like macaroni make a bucket
everything keeps seeping out, slipping through
no matter how I
tie to try, try to tie, tie to tie, try to try.
Still.
Be still.
And still
be.
Does the lily think itself the scented triumph of it's
re-generation?
Where is the impatiens' brain that imagined itself
into being and where the hands that colored itself into
flower?
Still.
Be still.
And be.
Still.
Finding myself somewhere between passion and action,
I.
