Vibrations share the space,
the folie à plusieurs of sound.
We are that which exists in/as relationships.
The ink follows the tube
in which we place it.
My hand, your paper.
We want the ticks and tocks
to fill what was/is not here-
The vespers that hides from finger’s tip-
the simple scale.
We keep searching for
that fallen tree in the forest,
Though the paths of our future
are written into blades of grass.