The Limit of the Grey

the posture of the Grey is not erect
it leans forward just a little
it speaks, sometimes it seems to empty jungles
and waits to hear its kind repeat

there is a kind of looking back
that leaves the grey in ceaseless search
the sounds it makes are cheap cassettes
or fiddles scratching through solos
unintended for the final show

It caws its solutions to the endless puzzles
that are sounds—speech
to it, the strange mathematic
of impulse, air and answer
who are the final dense olympiad

the greys repeat our symbology
we trade in codes and litanies
and so they squawk the alphabet
returning, as reflections of ourselves,
our yet unentered minds

 

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