Consider this her sentence: the syllables
of self she’d like to make some semblance
of sense of, someday. The way her veins
run blue, the true of her smile. Heart
-beat set against the clock, set true north, sett
-led by the sea. The tick of breeze. She’ll confess
to you her deeds, her needs, her bleeding
ink and lake, if you will only forsake the
endless squares and round-faced tock
of it, and listen to the stone-cold shock
of something different. Something small,
and simple. A laugh. A paper itch. A day.
Prompted by PAD Challenge, day 12.