THE WEAVE:

Vesta sends a poem

back to Chiron,

because she never runs

out of them…

I know Word
can never encompass
the whole

Truth. I will
write anyWays.  Not in
defiance, but acquiescence

to the Way
Word works.  Through
discovery, it leaks

into opaque territory.
I wring my mind
out, upon the page.  It is

the simplest Way.  Letting
Word flow up, and out,
and through.  The paper is

the wild River.  The pen,
the bubbles on
the surface.  All flowing

to the same place.