Don't give me a pen. I'm not
someone with those 'ideas' and 'emotions' to
spill onto the page. 'What oft was thought'
is too common, and I'd never say it so succinctly.
Don't even give me a pen, for
like all, we can spill onto the white table
ad nauseam with our black bile. Bile
of the melancholy of having nothing to say.
Don't give me a box to fill with writing,
even the smallest: were it just one membrane,
thin, crisp, delicate metrical daintiness -
don't give that to me - see how I fill this
page until I reach the bottom.
The black border (or the metrical) warrants
something to be filled with. The filling must
surpass the frame - and what's worse than bad art
in a wonderful frame? We dislike it because we
are confused between frame and filling's relationship.
So don't give me a frame - that provoking challenge.
Don't even give me the space within - frameless, and thus spaceless.
For what isn't bordered is infinite, and
that offers too much scope for my words.