I already know the words written by the poet's hand
arranged evenly in verses under the dictate
printed on show and for fashion
read-through
I love the freedom of everyday words in poems
I want for more than the weather of the spirit
Though they bear the mark of names and curses
I humbly perceive to them over and over again
I know the words closed in the past
I feel longing for the secret sound
In old books I look blind
I'm going after them with a flushed shadow.
