[A]

The worn grain of an old chair, The shape of a woman’s ankle, A spear of grass in the day’s eye, The belfry of a watchful heart, Each tolls a silence. Why do I Use words then?

[B]

My eyes scan pages of books And my tongue exchanges Coins of words. Still there is A flatness to my soul, into which Understanding shines only dimly. The bog teems with secrets Filed by the years. And what poor Spades I use to dig!