I love all words that move
in rippledrop and gigglespeak
in staggerplay and stumblesault
across the page
loosening themselves from syntaxs
of properprimnesses and of all
coventions and contrivitys
like children escaping
into summer amusements.

I love in fact
the patterns of words
on a freshly encountered page
before any meaning can be discerned
or fixed in immobility of print
in the breaking light shadow
of underneaths
that in and of themselves
carry a message beyond words.

This too is language
--proto language--
like birdsong
that carries inside of it
Daemons of meaning
beyond meaning
rooted in nature
like deertracks on freshly fallen snow
or a V of geese against a lowering sky
flying in formation
towards a rumor of spring.