The word is dead, has to be written
it’s penning itself clear, of perjory
doesn’t matter if the page is grey or empty
if the letter’s looking for a lie or an address, whatever,
the wings of the ant want to flee its shoulders, ink is
grieving for a language whose lips are sealed
one is amazed at one’s breath, spells the disappearing
of the morning stars into their own name, crystal clear –