February House

These pens are, in reality,
literary IV's, trickling ink
in skinny bluish veins;
when hands are stained, and skin,
all is blotted out, all save erudition;
splashing every vacant, whitewashed facade,
the literati of the street publish odd graffiti
in the empty spaces and blank pages of the city;
we living autobiographies are awaiting inevitability, us
virtuoso poets play language with eloquence
so we may never again
languish in inky inconsequence

Evan Williams