Your words set down upon the line
(in ink, on one side only please,
and watch the margins)
shimmer randomly and
bounce
against the whiteness
of the page
there
no
there
(How can I read them when they won't
stand still) indicating their presence only
by their movement
by their
ever-shifting dance
upon the lines
(now wavy to my eyes from trying
to follow the optical illusions
of your mind).
Dance, logos, dance upon the page
my red pen (felt-tipped, irrevocably)
suspended
above you, not able
to violate the poetry
of your prose
descending only once
to inscribe
in that signal, ineffective way
the mark of one mind
upon another.
--Fran Claggett
