the blank sheet

ah the blank sheet, at the touch of a button, meets
to language the moment: is the only thing:
and so he goes to make dinner: silent: thinking: a poem
in the making I say, as he holds his wine,
it goes back the way, the word, the stone,
to our incipient beginning, the day we left water
only to drink and drink
like we could never slake our thirst
in getting back -
our bodies water
our lives fluid
as rainfall
and its cycle of coming and going -
we word our moments, it is all we can do,
and all the heart feels is chained and linking
back to where we first began, and they 
track our moments outward, like spreading rings,
like he threw a massive stone into a pond
or a planet into space
and watched the shock-waves travelling ..

our words word us, we verbalise our breath, we
curse the day it bore us
we love those near us
we query our past
we hope our future
even in darkness we pass, and re-pass
and all our ways are word-wound -
in them we sound, resound, are born
of breath  -

when all else is taken
it is language that is left
The Book of The Scribe
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