I listen to the words I make for signs
of fractures. For, looking to the future,
I can expect no less. When will they come?
Or have they already taken root? Type out
The text you need to say, and see the
anagrams the brain, that home of puzzles
and life’s unremembered acronyms,
makes in failing to collude with
fingers. This game turns to a study –
all life its end. We will become at last
only what we can say, or see – sharp now, but
fading through the cataracts of time.
Silent, flightless, pointless, waiting.