56. the tint of text of ink

I write not with ink | but with words

even when none appear | I write not

in the sense of saying | but as a way

of drawing | it out | he in | them away

I write | for the sense | of seeing

intensions | of various registers

require | disruption or cohesion

particles smaller | than the word

interact with | the thing written

to reveal | it covertly displayed

I intend | in the sense I tend

to do something | not that I know

what that something | will be

beast or famine | irregularities of

thought | produce belated forethought

coruscating brilliance | shining through

the simulacrum | of simulacra in abundance

draughts of sunlight | inhabiting those

hidden areas between | thought and

expulsion | of thoughtlessness

 

a scribble of | an illegible smudge

of a word | is text of the handmade

sense of word | as a meaning lost

and found | a slip of it across

a page | intent on wordlessness

is the text of a mind | at play with

drama | pick up the pen up to

write | and you will draw the word

with subtle intensity | until it reveals

how | as itself | it becomes the thing

not known | yet inserted into the

body’s deep | and rising breath

anticipation of | a sound | shape

sense | of what a person means

by the gesture of hand | to create

a swirl of ink | leaking into the white

fibers | of the page trapped in its own

expectations of itself | waiting to be

forgotten | to become unmalleable

finally | to be only just itself