Lacuna

the blank paper is silent
uncomfortably so, and just as snowfall
urges foot stepping on the wide white sheet
so you seek to grace the page
without blemish, compelled to find
some undetermined pure pre-thought
as though divining the divine
with a dowsing pencil

you think perhaps the poet is a torn piece
of blotter, taking dictation as automaton
and even with all the nonsense stream
that randomises, you imagine that sequence
suffices to say something profound
in its perplexity, between lines of typeset
where widows linger in mid-air
and orphans are isolates*

-true there are palpable patterns between print
but the lacuna is always and only possibility
not source, not wellspring of wonderment
cavity is close-mouthed, a heaving hiatus
before the starting pistol sounds
and the white-noised wind
whistles by as we run with the first words
and feel how far they reach

Notes:
*widows & orphans – typeset terms for visually loose hanging sentences and words

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