To swing yourself

from moment to moment,

to weave a clause

that leaves room

for reminiscence and surprise,

that breathes,

welcomes commas,

dips and soars

through air-pockets of vowel,

lingers over the granularity of consonant,

never racing to the full-stop,

content sometimes

with the question mark,

even if it's the oldest one in the book.

To stand

in the vast howling, rain-gouged

openness of a page,

asking the question

that has been asked before,

knowing the gale of a thousand libraries

will whip it into the dark.

To leave no footprints

in the warm alluvium,

no Dolby echoes

to reverberate through prayer halls,

no epitaphs,

no saffron flags.

This was also a way

of keeping the faith.