Everything is holding on by a strand,
the thin line of sand ground out of mountains
as much as the freefall spider filament.
Nucleotide chains dangle arms and wings.
Even the flowers growing a Fibonacci daydream.
Everything written in code, the unobvious
the real, as if some old phrenologist
had expected to brush this planet with absent-minded fingers
and flicker awake. Things barely glimpsed
await translation and spiral on.
Our only language is context:
absence and presence. Each sentence is jagged geometry,
each silence where heat goes to die.
You are an iceberg, barely glimpsed, trying to speak.
I drift nearby in mute decryption: That is not a hand,
but a fortune cookie shattered open.
Trace the lines with your finger. That is not a future,
but your name, spelled differently. The true name of anything
is sign language. Look: Your deciduous heart,
falling. Feet, levitating on a shadow.
A face, hanging on by a thread.