Boustraphedon
By blake
This poem is in times It zips through the hot printer sandwiched between the printed copy of a power point presentation on asthma and a music review. This poem's thin bed, this sheet of paper so insignificant would yet loom like a tall white tower over a penny-sized plant cell on its shaded sidewalk below I will rub both sides pinching its thinness feeling as acutely as I can with my thumb and forefinger for its immensity feeling even the film of skin oil on either finger With my myopic eyes I scan for incongruities in the paper any clue that it is made from wood pulp thick and starchy like shredded potato or coconut pressed together under heat And then I maybe read the words following the shape of each letter with my running finger feeling for raised beds or trenches thinking it might be cuneiform or sanskrit. Written May 31st, 2001 © on Jun 03 2001 08:15 AM PST 0 • 10
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"This poem is in times..."