The shape of this poem

Is defined by this page.

Where one ends so goes the other

Hold it in your hand

And feel at its sharp square edge the limits of all things -

Turn the page to end it

And discover another start to it all.

The whole may be narrow

But the chamber it conceals

Filled with light and lightness

And ceaseless sibilant naming,

The eruptive power and silent steady force

Of the eye drawing all things into

That same unending evanescence.

A stone is nothing but a song, a breath,

A memory left too long.

The wind nothing but the weight of the world

In its restless shifting and search for comfort.

And the words just spaces,

The end of things, their becoming

Made known only by their edge

Laid against the emptiness.

A chair depends on everything it is not.

My heart is no different -

Page and pen and illegible yearnings

Line by line

To be found in your hands.