The linear assembly, toothed with preface,

the ease of the pen with the swoop of the wrist

of poignancy,

and the raven ink painted against the pallid,

is but a scribble upon the anterior atop the eye, behind the synapse.

Vocalized, maybe,

in a whisper or drawl, a yell or a yawn, passing through

the stale air or lost amid the arid gale.

What can be written that cannot be said?

Words are mere mechanisms.

The vectors of importation.

They are complete, amassed letters transfixed together

with the sinew of sonority,

but reticent impressed upon the vellum.