the drafter

he draws words
like paint shaped on canvas

tiny brush strokes
of language

spun from flax
spun out of gold

an alphabet
hued in colour
like the leaf
green then yellow
to wine
then to earth

onto earth

into earth

there is a word
call it

a journey-tool
of lettered precision

he carves the mark
that is himself
into strokes
and curls
and dashes

until the peace
that is the falling of the sun
descends upon him
loudly in the evening

and he finds he doesn’t know
what was sentence
what was shading

he gifts it to you
the picture
with its brush-pattern words

to you
to seek the meaning
in the work
of a draft-shapen

© Frank Prem, 2017

May 2017 Poem #01: so handsome (what a guy)




2 thoughts on “the drafter

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