liable to happen as proof of paper,
tissue-thin and susceptible to damp.
I feel them as background, as essence
of the atmosphere of days;
they’re a dimension of sound:
word-songs that bring some things clear.
I write them. Without them,
I’d see the script of everything –
seascape, love interest, car chase, death –
but not know half the half-truth.
If you want to, think of your favourite film,
double it: now its music is up to you;
that is what it’s like to drop ink,
shape things onto a page.
So I’ll leave you to it, and go back
to working out what I mean.