Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil
that places a mark? The writing that appears? The book
once blank, now bursts with colour and words. Paper is made
for red, yellow, blue, and all colours between; I play
Pan pipes to remind me paper sings in quattros, octavos.
Are folds the language of music, or does the score place notes here,
here and here, is this that song? Darling, beware how light changes
what you read, the sounds that issue forth when you open the jaws
of any book. Bound as they are, will you dare place your head
within this mouth that speaks from the past, discover what happens?
Radish
Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)
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