this machine; a father on the front porch
of the universe reading existence's papers lunging at the printed word,
meticulously punctuated ebb and flow
of silence across the giddy trees crossed
by sunlight — the universe knew very
little of the incertitude of tongues
until the pain of all exactness worded
the void into a singular nomenclature:
a stifling and precise, simple, quiver-maimed often fighting through panicked streets and gory waysides. a hoard of no less than silence like a stone dropped
into all that is the world: living.