Like (Chinese) brush strokes I shall find the point on which I’ll pivot turn
Differentials woven in as bristles spin
Ink across the surface although it appears as a two-dimensional space
It seeps further through capillaries reaching depths
Often forgotten

The infinite dimensions within the page
Made possible by the grace of a hand
Devoid of any fate
          save the fate of ink is to be writ
         the fate of paper is to be written on
                   save the fate of ink and paper are in
                   subjective hands

And now a bond emerges from this pair
In a dreamlike movement fact has come
To act and bind as brush binds ink and paper
Fiber Flesh Fluid Foam
A single stroke of inspiration turn
Inward and ‘round the perimeter
Of the page there sits an image of me
(Chinese) Character