You are draped in a festoon of years
weighted with chronicles, tomes, indexes.
And I am the repository of your stories
an empty cistern you fill up with all your fullness.
You spill children and I shed them
tangles of words, yours and mine rearranged.
We are cocoon weavers, gossamer strand splitters
molting fonts and glyphs; our very own typeface.
Did you ever imagine it would be
such exquisite agony?
EE, 11.20.09
