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One-sided conversations with the page,
whose voice is blank and vast as sky alone,
prove
In quiet hours, a page and I do speak.
By her expansiveness I am undone.
By my so few and guided measly lines,
Doth she find what I know not clear.
And through our tete-a-tete, what worlds
collide and heave our futures o'er coals --
A moment finds us -- makes us -- as we swirl,
And imprinted she and I diverge to Earth.
Then, in noisy hours, men of grandeur take
up a leaf to listen, yet only hear
one-sided conversation with the page.
For, with eyes, might we see product over
Process, with wanting ice out churning souls.
Retrospective scrawl pales when sings my love,
Whose voice is blank and vast as sky above.
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