simonhlilly

CURSIVE

Once only this voice,
This line of sound.
One unto another
A flow of, a push of,
Outwards reach,
Mind to mind reaching
Like a tide’s reach
Stirring sands
A finger’s breadth
Beyond the possible
And then on again,
Another and another,
Creeping upwards
Into new land,
New not-self.
Rolled out, dragged,
Shaped, explored,
These sounds
Eroding the silence
Of the white page.

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