Unwritten

Too fast for Words

the blade of a cell might still not tell us
on why young deer jump over the fence
or why the milkprongs huddle in piles
since some of the shield is yet unattacked

for the night moves fast when water’s on fire
and small jumping airmen maneuver the sky
yet we pay the nickels to watch it one-handed
a breeze in our windows, straight eighty with skill

and dreams come all over the place
showing up at a times even when we’re asleep
and nobody whispers since yelling is screenwork
and nobody scribes a line in the soul