(page)

There’s something
so imprisoning
about the page.
The way we line
our words up
in rows, corralled
with commas.
Bracketed in place
forever with
periods & question
marks.
I have never
liked colons,
and slightly
more semi ones.
I like to think
of words
alight
about the room,
like young birds
on a day like this
fresh from rain,
blown clean by
strong winds –
the sun feeling as
we all do
after a tumultuous
day –
just glad to be
back.

Or butterflies, perhaps
yellow ones to
match the sour
grass, just bloomed.

It doesn’t seem
to be the thing
to do. To line
them up,
and march them
into hard bound
books, closed tight
left there, alone
with no one
to breathe life
into them,
time & again,

as though on display
their wings pinched
down beneath
glass.
Just waiting
like old people
in the doorways
of a nursing home,
who know they
used to
sing.

d2/12/99