Invisible Ink

And my hands rest quiet on the keys
summoning no numbers to dance, no words to sing
building no report on the state of the world
from raw data or realized metaphor.

If I ever captured truth, it wasn't in the words
but in the space between them. It follows that
a blank page is the highest truth of all,
where words go when they follow numbers out

to infinity. Writing on glass in invisible ink.
Counting minutes as they fall upwards
in an imaginary hourglass.

As silence swallows music, space the radio roar
of newborn stars, stillness greets every forsaken soul
with the touch of an old friend.

Revised with the help of the WompWorks group, but still probably a work in progress:

And my hands rest quiet on the keyboard
summoning no numbers to dance, no words to sing
building no report on the state of the world
from raw data or realized metaphor.

If I ever captured truth, it wasn't in the words
but in the space between them. It follows that
a blank page is a higher truth. Words
follow numbers out to infinity and back

to zero. I write on glass in invisible ink,
counting minutes as they fall upwards
in an imaginary hourglass.

Silence swallows music. Space engulfs the radio roar
of newborn stars. Stillness greets every forsaken soul
with an old friend's touch.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside