“Write . . . the things which are . . .” —Revelation 1:19
It held elegance.
Whoever wrote the dictionary,
arranged the letters in a way
that revealed grace,
that revealed subtlety,
that revealed sophistication.
Things that I am not.
It was a mask of cool indifference,
to detach myself from everything except the words on the page.
It refused to let me look at the author,
but the poem.
It is not a name or an alias.
It is not a label or a tag.
It is a way I feel and think when I am surrounded
I do not concern myself with the sweat and the tears
the poet wept as they created something.
I concern myself with nothing but the arrangement of letters,
with the arrangement of words.
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