Ink (For Theresa Marie)
As I crease each page with the pressure of my point,
Cutting into the flow of each character,
I strive to lay lines to the surface of meaning.
I attempt to make sense of the flow of my thoughts
As I try to define with each separate line
The value that each gesture strives for.
I cut into pieces the correlation
Among the characters in my narrative;
Between scribing and feeling.
But this contradiction between purpose and process,
Between intention and muscle response,
Belies the nature of liquid.
For the amount of flow,
If nature has its way,
Is determined by the size of its reservoir.
So to finish my thoughts
In the context of language
Do I cede to the size of my pen?
Do I rely on the nature of language?
Or the language of nature’s mien?