.

I will strive to control my connotations.
Like a bevelled plate with even pressure
all around, I will leave a good impression
reminiscent of the plate mark on a print.
Embossing moments, I will walk through
lemon halls with no sideways glances,
will deliberately ignore the splattered
egg on my favourite outdoor statue,
will even disregard the sardonic smile
of a mentor who strolls through the
studios wearing capandgown. Let the
ink of all my current notions dry
before presenting them for grande
analysis. No more graphs and blue
descending lines. Meanwhile, a young
electrician opens up the ceiling,
leaves wires exposed that look like
something medical, something wonderful.
Loops of red and green and blue that
lead to their own intelligence. They
were never mine to follow, and much
as I would like to splice them open,
to get at the copper inside, I won't.
And once there, once inside that room
again, the one that always fills with
intangible impositions, with gothically-
arched windows that open outward, I
will mostly remain silent and eventually
leave through the same door that he
entered. Following my council thus,
stepping past the torn envelops he
discards, I will trace his process
like a map, will always remember
that footsteps are clues that lead
through rusty streams of light to
some new place, past stone walls
that give way to oldworld corridors
that exude deliciously-unexpected
disorientations, that finally
point the way.