To all whose minds are lined from rim to hour
and printed inkwise down the paper’s edge
one black pen to check, one eye to scour
the task that’s finished and the next to fledge
To you I sing the cirrus song of morning,
unbroken hour still full of time to list;
To you I also sing the flight of loving,
unlined ― unbound ― like fog among the mist.
The list that binds, the heart that lets it go,
to this I sing of rhythmic disarray,
of everything you think you ought to know,
of trembling at the ebb and drip of days ―
Now do this to time and place and order:
While tending lines and edges, cross the borders.