Dyslexia

​

I watch the silent, bright things gambol

in a three-ring circus of utterance,

and my petition is to name intact,

intoning one by one,

the monotonous rosary of their letters,

their hymns sung upon the snug pages,

the poems echoing out of inchoate paper.

​

But symbols squirm like fingers

folding together and apart

in an unhallowed novena, unknowable,

never captured by ruptured eyes.

​

There is time only to taste the paper once

before something black circles back

and seals it away.