Run your fingers across the printed page, a live thing, the text textured, a rhythm of words. The print sometimes stands out like goosebumps, like the words were chilled as they came spilling, plucked feathers fallen into a heap by the wayside. And half the thoughts thought can't be caught. Words give no release to the things tickling at the tip of the tongue. If thoughts are water then what gets written and said is a small rowboat, creaky brass oarlocks, white weathered wooden seats, and look over the side into the inky depths. Seagulls and mermaids and here there be dragons.

By what star shall we navigate? Does the boat float? Is it worth crying into a salty sea? How far are we from home and when shall we return?

I'll tell you I exist, this string of words connected spilled from my fingertips, that for lunch I ate a salad with dill dressing and some chicken soup out of a box, but you can't hear me breathing. You can't hear the rattle of keys connected to the thoughts, each letter a process unto itself, appearing on the lighted screen before me. I'll tell you I saw a blue heron standing on the rocky river shore and watched water from the millrace pond bead up and roll from the black feathers of a Canadian goose's head. I can tell you I kissed my husband quickly because the bus was coming as I dropped him off for work, and that tonight I'll while away the after-dinner hours dancing, but there is so much more, so much that is unsaid, so much in between.

Run your fingertips over the page and notice the difference between rough text and smooth blankness, all the great expanse of margin. It's the smooth parts, the unmarked, the blank, only it's not blank because sometimes it's the part that isn't said that remains the unfathomable depths.