from a costly ball-
point pen,
black birds
churn circles
in a bright
azure sky.
And yet, somehow,
we passers by,
with each routine day—
every drab sepia
hour that transpires—
have grown more
and more certain
and less and less surprised
by the squiggles of letters
which we know
to be familiar
but which no one
on Earth (long since
dead or still living)
has, as of yet,
been equipped
to decipher.
