Each sheet fills with sound,
funk throttles the margins’ throats shut—
finally something is incomprehensible
to this, to the size of stars.
Something worth recognising.
It is noisy, it clashes
with every corridor of doubt,
it claims the empty space with a
pompous shout.
Maybe even too pompous—
it cheers, takes new names
and dances in the step of the old ones, too,
it grasps, it owns,
it turns swift and has a handsome dip
to it. Every curve insists.
It insists.
It isn’t always right, but it insists.
Perfect.