Language splatters its significance
upon the empty page.
Hither and thither
it meanders, into mind.
Where the outcome’s grave.
Invited or uninvited,
read or ignored,
Language gives us pause.
Punctuated ore knot.
A poem is of a piece
with frozen music,
with a flowing art
it’s embedded on a page.
Ready to take up arms,
against a sea of troubles
or just slip into unconsciousness
to twist a meaning out of this whirr
of skirts and words and bagpipes.
Still, lyric voices come and go,
Like footsteps in the snow,
Just as we come and go.
InnerUrban 