Word

If looking for the word in the night , in tiny eruptions of sound on darkness a word or sound makes no difference to light or its absence ,a mere paper. Not even a paper but a thought one ,in deep recesses, when a chest beats under the skin ,in vague fear of revolt.

A ruled paper makes a word perfect ,a sticky note filed in memory’s pages as a cough on darkness ,a soft throat, a splash of water on the earth, its air a powdered color of white on asphalt ,flowers on earth dropped from a sky ,a word fallen from a passing pocket.

If looking for other people’s words on a light screen ,from early fingers , fingers have thoughts on tips. Words flow from a music of fingers when fingers play on the keyboard their sibilant notes on its dark nights. A soft light pours from green domes on a slew of words , in yellow splash.