The shape of words

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 slottedĀ 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.


Poetry: Syllabic

When a word crashes to the ground

creates a soundwave, a pulse

a little death that scatters leaves

those clacking hammers of the typewriter

piano keys dropping

suddenly livid

that musical myotonia

as it shatters into syllables

crumbles into spiralling letters

we see it break apart into meaning

symbol and sign spin away from each other

the phonemes collide and repel, atomic

when a word collapses into chaos

that is when we see

a little of what is called meaning