Like thin pencil
flourishes of high birds
churning wider
and wider
circles in the gray
emptiness of morning sky
every day
every hour passes
gradually turning
into something
so slow
and simple
and inevitable it
surprises no one—
even though
they squint and stare
unprepared
at the squiggles
of letters which are
all familiar
but which
together form
a signature
a word that no one
on earth dead
or living has
ever read before.
