Tuesday, April 25, 2023


Seeking much more 
than some artistic
license, it's 

always the young 
who are zealous 
and wanton 

and so frantic 
to stoop down and 
scrape away the letters—

not to mention 
reshuffle, tweak, and 
goose the hallowed numbers—

which are written 
even now, in the eye 
of the mind,

on the definite surface 
of some melancholy stone.

It's not that they don't know 
the chaos 
that awaits them; 

it's just that their default 
is to fill the world 
with noise;

to keep the story going;
to modulate thin air;

to keep the all-night 
party raging 

on both sides 
of that innocuous, 
horizontal dash

which is so 
sandwiched by the finite, 

but which seems 
to bloom
without its referents

and, itself, wants
only silence.