I sleep by the waking light
& eat more what they do not;
they pull apart the single frame,
spreading haphazard the shots -
pollute the air with slight
falling human saline-spots
& hail of silvery-lined eyelash-curls.
I am I am I am
lost in letters of transience;
curled symbols moving on slighted ice-blades,
they weave threads of species known
but mostly unacknowledged; what is
composed matters not anymore -
it is only what they tell.
Only with the dawning
do the letters read clear:
perhaps they spell out what was always known
of one behind the worthless sword
cutting jagged marks into the work
of the inspired and the great.
Swordless, awake: are these jagged letters my own?
