today you've written me

moon, today

you've written

me.   And because

you see it all,

even before

the ink moulds

 the page, even

before the pen rises

 between your fingers

you already know

what it is I’ll read.

You already know

what I will read tomorrow

or next month

or never ever again.

It’s Braille

 in my muscle

that you’ve touched,

that you never stop

touching.  It makes me

wonder if the blind

can read something

so often their page is worn

thin, and becomes a tree again,

and a root, and earth,

and sky…before any of it

was born.  What is it like to be

written already,

   waiting

for the fingertips

to touch the mountain

or the mouth, and feel

for the first time,

the song that's composed

their lung?—

Can I be the fingers

and the hand upon you, moon?

Can I touch and touch,

soft and perched

like the blind and then write

the alphabet of you,

in two pairs of three,

graded or raised

 

all before, all after,

all right now, always, always

going smooth,

vibrating, a-b-c-d

all of it,

infinitely?