If i could comprehend every boxed minute,
to every sharp-edged word or act
in my mind, I would be contented
I would be
Freed,
to the limitlessness, path of that word.
Line, line, box - every whim and sentiment - neatened, bordered, listed.
Colourless, shapeless, odourless thoughts, their malleable bodies,
are pressed into lines
they are pressed into the senses, with dough-dimpled thumb marks
forced, freed, fathomed.
would I be contented
