should fall on the page in their troublesome ways,
formed or reformed into lifeless life-forms
by the power of their letters, their word-D.N.A.?
And what if some voice that would read them one day
provided the spark
that electrified them
and brought them to life?
There'd be words that would dance there
and words that would sing
and words that would sit there quite quietly, apart,
thinking beautiful, true or impossible thoughts.
There'd be some telling other words what they should do,
and bullies there'd be, dark, immature terms,
"improving" the verse, rearranging the strings
as they squirm in and out round each other like worms.
Or what if they fell like notes on a stave
and developed their meanings like themes
and could marionette and beget a new motif or world
as easy as having a shave?
And what if they took it too far, got carried away
with their dancing and singing, carousing and bringing
the whole enterprise to disgrace,
first slipping then sliding all over then right off the page?
Or, rather more likely, the words remained words though not mine,
and the staves as we thought them displayed a new form,
twisted skywards in spirals and loops to the sun
(if not to the sun, to my words for the same):
an arcade of helices, Palace of Chance,
with fashion the croupier taking the bets.
Then what if my words were to wager their drift
in a lost-word scenario, double or quits?
And what if the voice that will read them aloud
could return to the music, sound birdsong or sax?
Could they somehow be handing me back
the sense of my text? Not a chance,
they've moved on
to a life that has hammered the old into shape,
to a work in translation,
more up to the mark.
It's out as always -
Tokyo's cherry blossom.
It's that time of year.