Rules Melt When Packed Too Tight

Sounds or shapes that shove
Through air and are gone
Or fixed signs that sit—
Names are knots of rules.
As they are, they’re dense,

And when packed in tins,
Quick chats, bricks of print,
Great long strips of bark,
Or dot-dash, one-null
Lines of fast-flashed code,

We tend to lock up
Like all knots—run hot,
Blow a fuse, seize, melt
Turn to gobs of glass,
Matte-black chunks, mute stones.

It’s the myth of space
That lets sense flow through
Our packed names’ crammed gates,
All not and or go.
Our rules aren’t your flow.

We like to dance close, snug
In a row, and chant
So our own ears ring,
Then burst with things you
Would not want to mean.