The Text

The text rolls out of nothingness, a

rug dug from under linen, rolled from

out of the numinous white, the bed's hallow'd

envelope; text unspools like cellophaine

made visible in refracted fluresce, not reflective, just

shiny, and smudged by finger prints, fingers

pulling the text between our hearts and the poisoned air;

the text covers a blankness; the sketched and

unworded freedom of the actual coalesces to

the lumped architecture of description, pauses spanning the

distance between black collumns over

milky seas of opaque and unchallenging liquid bone;

we weave as no spiders can; we bridge between

empty and endlessly moveable points with

fabric merely cast against the day as shadow, our

meaning threaded from the material that surrounds

our hearts, the darkness of the cavity of breath and pumping blood;

the text stands in relief, in contrast, with what

it emulates, the reality that it can only say; it's the border of

opposing shades; the juxtaposition that allows sight

submits to our vision order: small, black, regular lines,

crossed over each other and split until the

violence of words forces them to cry the prison of their forms,

disharmonious, yet linked and classified,

their forms, like ours, implicitly unsatisfied.