Open the eager book,
for the pages allow
an alliteration or two.
Keep as closeness to ink,
for words can deceive eyes
that lay across storms
to be rain written.
Flush in floods of pens,
that stain palms as blue
as the night’s buzz
when the lights lower,
lingering on the fringes
of a thought played
with fingers all day.
Across the horizon
the stars are displaced
as chaotic indian blots,
navigate them
to your secretive mind
creations. So far beyond
an earthly tenure
to constrain these notions,
take flight outwards
in this spoken phrase
that belies nothing
but keyboard taps.
Shortly lean over
the meanings of afternoons,
ready to spin out a couple
of blissful scratches
behind the ears.
Compose, angled in the tilt
that springs upright
just before an idea strikes
in a bite from tyran-thesaurus!
For within this room,
that reads as a novel
unprinted, rough granite lays
on unwashed jean knees,
half chisled away
to Roman satisfaction.
