We could turn a drop
of water to quarts,
but all we know
is how to knot chords
and thus capture silence
like a song or
a ship changing quay;
this is nothing old.
But nothing knew
about it, nor about how
nothing stops
the slow-moving ark of time
from giving the world its dew
every morning. In an age
when nothing is close to wholly
perfection, all that remains
is to write these wrongs.

(This homophonic piece of writing is meant to be simultaneously read
both aloud and with visual text)

flower dew

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