It had been many revolutions
of a circular orbit
since the scribe had a
handle on things.
In such rapidly spinning
vertiginous times, you know
how hands go up
and loose things fly off.
It was still
that way,
the empty cavernous pages,
the sunken and smudged knuckle,
the barren creased hand
that holds a space
for words to line up with others,
and it won't happen today.
Again, the scribe refused
to record a statement,
for there was nothing left in the hourglass-
in the water pitcher-
in the ink cartridge-
in the world
to turn around
clockwise.
Undeterred, scribe scribbles through the days
of notation and inventory
until all is spent and broken with
vocabulary and slang pronunciations.
For the construction of solid thoughts and building
nations, do not rely too heavily on the current degrees
of angular trajectory
or wishes without a final destination.
The lines all disappeared, finally
nobody waited around to hear
the words that came before
Here, here
the echo never said who
I am
scratching the surface with lines none would read.
Image By Creator:Guercino (Giovanni Francesco Barbieri) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
