One Single Impression: Exhibition

Bending over backwards,
Twisting and contorting
The simplicity clean out of themselves
And balancing dangerously through space,
These small lines become the shapes
Of the sounds that speak

For the heart.

I don't form them much by hand anymore.

Not these days.

I prefer instead to tap into
The keyboard those secret shapes
That are the strange rhythms,
The secrets, truths, and wild imaginings

Of my heart.

I wonder sometimes if I am out of touch
(Perhaps lost touch).
In my way I keep time to the music
But I never quite step into the dance.

I am told, though,
That I type fast.

I can't help it,
I say.

It is a condition of the heart.

One Single Impression