Today
I pray
all the words fray
ravel away...
Whole words
carry too much
-much less, defenseless against
strung out sentences, slabs
posed in parallelographic paragraphs,
cover pages and such strata and likewise its
generous detritus
stacks up,
burying A brain within its grooves-
meaning between
pro-fessional and con-fessional
moves too fast to hold,
the rope burns
and I feel smolder.
Sleep did not bother
to muffle the pillow words,
vowels easily pass
through cotton screens.
Threads that vibrate not enough separation.
Too clear to hear, semi-permeable is
the peace underneath, the bubbles inside lips
of white foamed waves.
Those hard consonants could not be avoided.
Sound becomes
a wall between being and story,
bricks and dreams.
Mist always settles.
Black
is the language
when there are more words
than matter.
Painting by Jacob Vrel (fl. 1654–1662) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
