O poem: come out to play,
from your rectangular box, where you stay
flat
pixels on a screen,
bits of ink on a page,
fused into graphemes—
side-by-side into words—
and punctuation marks,
sitting on lines, shaped, somehow, in
two-dimensional space—
silent, dormant—
until
eyes have found you,
retinas reflect you,
a cortex resurrects you,
nerves reverberate you,
a body performs you
(if only to itself)
... until you go back into your box to stay,
waiting to play some other day.
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