The Quintessence

To sip the rosé words off a wine glass page,

Intoxicated by a language

You thought you knew how to read before.

To capture nature in bars called margins, not as logs stacked,

As Lincoln,

But within a captured confine of thought,

Prayer, care.

Heed the space between stanzas,

Advice to keep in pocket,

As crumpled paper, 

Receipt and napkins,

A nibbled pen.

To write is to love.

The catch the tears before they run their course,

To love someone’s lips, a tongue.

But not just physical,

But what lies in throated cues,

To love creating sounds, not in what

We use to chew.

To kill an ache out of reach,

Too often necks stretch for meaning,

Yet ignore fingers for their lead.

Burning, not the paper,

But deeming confusion dead. 

A pile of ash for now.

To write is to read. 

Hearing voice in every word. The intention,

Intimacy of throwing letters in a sequence that begs to be alive.

Signatures in tone, not upon a dotted line.

Twenty six letters yielding infinity in the eye

Of meaning.