I spend my time cobbling together
Words, sentences, strings of pictures
As they flicker against the pale bone
Screen of my skull, like film, a matter
Of illumination. Dreams also enter the world
This way: as pictures we comprehend
Without the use of tongue or voice, letters,
Or any spill of ink. But that only works
When sharing one’s ideas with oneself.
To communicate to another, we need patchwork
Rag-words sewn together into quilts
Of meaning. That, and the shine of eyes.