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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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Refilling a book

A hesitance stays me, after the first marks
Of measurement are laid- like the instinctual
Reluctance to break glass. But I must tear
Rather than cut here, for the fractal blur
At the edge is truer than the wandering path
Sliced by sharper tools. An enforcement of line
And some stability (flat surface, steady hand)
Is all that's needed, but still it takes some grace
To start, acceptance of the mar I need to make.
Once into the rhythm, there is a warm thrill
To it- the sound comforts, like fire-crackle,
Small destruction's soothing song. This act,
Repeated, results in a ragged stack, ready
For the next refinement. Along the folds
I punch the guide-holes; each signature
(Unmarked yet by any name or word at all)
Held against the cover, startling snow
On the rich-smelling black ground.
In silver glimmer I trace a snake's course,
A game of weavings and returnings, a trail
Fusing dark to light, laying a canvas, nothing
But potential at the end; though (cover snugged
Around the finished form) showing forth a rough
Beauty of achievement lying in my hands.
- 4/17/06