when you read these words
that bleed onto my pages
you hear a shadow and not see
the face and form of this poet
else, I would have myself
come before you and opened
my mouth and wagged my tongue
within your sight and hearing;
but no, you can't even trace
restless lines traversing my face 
nor animated inflection of my tone
none to aid but yourself
as you pick my words
as in a vineyard to gather
them in your basket to
later press, juice, or ferment.
So drink your fill of my vine,
touch inebriated awareness;
maybe there our meanings meet.