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.