like words to the holler

my writing is wrong,
or bad,
this i know and accept
every time i step away
from the letters written
in second hand cursive
next to the colons, and commas
and misplaced participles
of verbs and nouns
of subjects lost in
the predication of rushing
the revisionism;
but the truth in the relativity of
language dictates that as each
character drawn by a practiced hand
is left in the surf of infinite
words:
the unexpected of imperfection
and waiting for the kiln
to react long and slow and
subdue the method in the beauty
of fire and spark and blue-green
hot sweat rising up over a clay
glazed and new and unused and
placed at that exact distance
from the start and finish
of flowing tip-tip-tip-tapping
and running through the steel
next to the succulence of a pond
that is all of these miles away from
your home,
and writes, types, draws, paints, etches
the scattering of shoulders that
turn, churn, learn, and verbs a word
that has yet to be created,
or corrected.