Logos

Watch a word for long
it will die.

Letters, cast like bones
of ink, mean

nothing. Remember apprentice
days -- how

bones have fallen like this
before.

Squint. Lay your face
on the page

with these bones. Smell
ink and paper.

Resurrecting the word
is slow work.

And ink is never enough,
like a shadow --

there must be more. A source
of light,

something in the light.

— Paintbrush
Autumn 1997

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