of ink on paper waiting to be read,
of air that breaks in waves against the ear.
It cannot hold a man of flesh and blood.
I change the layout, trying to make you fit.
You pass through walls, defying my designs,
defying me. I can't contain you yet.
I'm locked inside while I refine my plans.
This house of words is made of air and ink,
and in it dwell a you and I of words,
our voices hollow and our faces blank,
as near, as separate as index cards.
This house of words is made of empty space,
of understanding that surpasses peace.
4 May 1979
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I've never been satisfied with this poem, the more so since I think the basic idea is a good one. Maybe someday the right words will come to me, and I'll dwell in the house of words forever.
I've never been satisfied with this poem, the more so since I think the basic idea is a good one. Maybe someday the right words will come to me, and I'll dwell in the house of words forever.
