A THEORY OF LINES
wind bent by the objects it surrounds
comfortable by the grave of empty space
each one admits something the others don't
said another way none can contain it all
from before dawn till deep dark I run a line through one day
my voice is a thread that goes only so far before breaking
the earth's slow curve is expressed on the great plains by a flat
line of horizon
in cities buried unknown beneath mounds lines still living were
first spoken
the lines come out of order and I try to straighten them
my failings and furies will end and the lines remain
jettrails mark the sky the page fills with lines and so on
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