By Kei Millar
suppose there was
a book
of only
one word,
let
from whose
clipped sound
all things
begin:
fir and firmament,
feather,
the first whale —
and suppose
we could scroll
through
its pages
every day
to find
and pronounce
a
Let
meant only
for us
we would
stumble
through
the streets
with open books
eyes crossed
from too much
reading:
we would
speak in
auto-rhyme,
the world
would echo itself
and sill
w’ed continue
in rounds
saying
let
and
let
and
let
until
even silent
dreams
had been
allowed.