Issue 160, Winter 2001
It begins in blindness: taste of invisible ink;
black mouthful of discreet syllables,
punishable. Shrouded in touch, at the shut
wooden door of the visible world.
In tutelage I told a static time with my fingertip—
miniature clock, ideogram of itself—then traced
the profile of Victoria (undistinguished,
dough-chinned). Learned tracery, griffonage.
This 'was not the only language.
Amongst ourselves: Pins in the Pincushion,
the Lexicon of Notched Sticks, Glass and Wooden
Beads on String. A Tactile Library.