And the
chipped rim
of the
deskwood
is alive in
the writing

and light,
tone of the grain
seen and heard
and a
tenor of things
written.

Words dense
in found
measurement
are content
in the voice
you and I
hear,

an agreement of
binding touch
in this
reconciliation.

I have chipped
at the meanings
random and raw and extending,
a treaty of touch
on others’
words.

It is the tone
of the tissued grain
from the
simplest surface
as you see
a wick of light
reflected,

as you
imagine the word
on the voice.

(cut-up: Underworld – Don DeLillo)