This Time the Page is Waiting

This time the page is

waiting for the poem.

No need for the lines

to force their way

on to it ,

and into to it .

There’s no violation

here this time,

only a white willingness

of the page

to be inscribed

with the blackest letters,

as permanent and

Immutable

as a ratio

of golden means,

that is

pricked and inked

into the page

divinely

as it

lays spread out alone.

Today the poet

is an ink artist

in a skin parlour

with a willing client,

who asks for the inscription

to be made,

regardless of the pain.

From “The Black and Other Base Elements ” by PWChaltas