I used to think
That I knew the shape of words,
The round and flat of them as they skimmed across the page,
The whistle and snap as they slotted into place
In the spaces for consonants and vowels.
Now I think I know
The shape of moments,
The rise and fall of breaths like cities,
Patterns of light slowing and pausing
While the pen, pneumatic, tattoos the page,
The texture and the taste of a fragment of living.