reading raworth

i puzzle over the weight 
of all those fragments

skeins and walls of words disconnected
and streaming full of gaps
in the “syntactic flow” and all the jokes
and puns and language games and
what does it all mean?
as they flow down the page
settling still all aquiver and flit

“how do people get away with that”

(i’ve said the same thing myself)

and yet: there are gems

the secret, which is what
holds everything up
into the light

*

i will write for nothing
but the surge of sound

*

you make me laugh with beauty

such beautiful, perhaps
even throwaway, lines

given permission