One writes to forgo the obvious and the easily explained,
instead alighting on moving realms,
adjustments turn shadings over on their bellies,
they sleep and fly through crowded cities.
Parchment skin is lit by an ageless sun, so words
remove damage, hurt, timidity or the plainly stupid,
we move fingers over decades and faces and
stories that might have existed before we did.
One writes when the brush is out of reach or maybe
muscles are silent in the brewing slip of living,
letters can be arrows, can elevate, can inspire
neurons to reach confusion at the clearest line.
One writes to escape, to hide, to love, to reject,
to anger even possibly to alter some old thing,
blossoms expand patiently like umbrellas, we
stride softly with our toes in warm sand.
Empty eyes scan a limitless universe for a single word
that might overcome the known, the lost sight,
we write to feel this loss as it draws forward,
embraced, these words defy themselves and us.
Edward Grayson is the author of So New I Hid.
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