Written

written

My chewed lips reek
like a printing press
of unseen word formations
discovered on a blind
man’s Rosetta Stone.

I have a blind man’s walk
and no need of a stick.
The earth and empty spaces
parking lots
chattering malls
tap me on in
mocking inarticulacy.

I need no guide dog
lights and soft pop songs
gossip about my
anonymity in dreams.