when you read squiggled words
that bleed onto jaundiced pages
you'll hear a shadow and not see
the face and form of this poet
else, you would have yourself
come before an audience and
opened mouth and wagged tongue
within your sight and hearing;
but no, you can't even trace faint
restless lines traversing this face
nor animated inflection of tone
none to aid but yourself
as you pick feigned words
therein a vineyard to gather
your basket brimming over
later press, juice, or ferment.
So drink your fill of orphaned vine,
touch inebriated awareness; and
perhaps thereby our meanderings meet.