Ao Que Cria



How is it

I asked

that my art remains

my do unheard of

my speak unfelt?



And is my seen unspoken?

For as satellite spinnerets weave their webs

and we see in little windows penguins dive

or some Somalian skull collapsed and bloody

have I not screamed.



Yet I might spin. It is my gift to build

anything a satellite might (see above)

with pen and voice.

Words are my toys that I spell-weaving

float

and bob and build with.



What have I spun?

Where walked and stood to speak?

or perhaps I need merely

at bureau

register my discontent.