Whose order is shut inside the structure of a sentence?

There’s a level at which words are spirit and paper is skin. That’s the fascination of archives. There’s still a bodily trace.

Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness.

I often think of the space of a page as a stage, with words, letters, syllable characters moving across.

A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding.

Whose order is shut inside the structure of a sentence?

If history is a record of survivors, Poetry shelters other voices.