drifting

drifting

 

    knowing not i,
    not he, not she, not them;
    the subtle fingers slide along
    all along
    the visceral folds of the violent pen—


    gutting the reverse print
    into a grotesque sublimity,
    the page expresses its oldest doubts
    in the fallen beauty of the dying form.


    gentle are those gracing tips
    that flow through the lines of flight,
    bracing the electricity of the touch
    like half-blind lovers finding themselves
    in the sharp peaks of brailled poetry.