fingers have caught the scent of paper;

and can taste the smell of words thinking.


now caught in the line of this pen,

in the line that draws the water

leaving the well enough alone.


alone with the humming of wine coolers;

in the words of dead men;

in the words of the letter; of the keyboards and pen;


in the sent of letters and the senseless

of the heaven scent.


now caught in the net where

the lines draw across this empty.


where the mind stretches out over days awake;

days awake with the turning of planets,

the turning of cranks and sheets.


where empty is the new full.


where alone is all together.


the odds are even and the stage is a set table.


the spoons, the knives,

the forks in a road.


now caught in the curve

of these fingers around this pen.


let one word turn over on its back

because when it’s gone and left,

it’ll sneak right back in.


it’ll sneak right back in to the left side

of thought nothing of it.


now wrapped

around the tip of an iceberg;

round the rim of glass,

but the parting of ways


and the parting of lips.