Dark Still Art

The poem that can’t
Be seen, nor heard—
Can’t be hand-spun,
Spit out by mouth,

Or kept in crypts
With keys and codes—
Now that’s a poem.
A kind of Braille

But with no rules,
Like lips tips touched
By the well’s pump
But with no well—

You’d sink in it,
Soft bed, loved chair,
Calm pool, deep sleep,
Your poem to read.