Here I sit
Barely disturbing wood fibres
Let alone the crust of the earth
Holding phrases to grindstone
Edging forward
Flinching as sparks fly
Might this ink draw magma?
Anticipate the geologies of time and season?
Drip salt into pillars of stone?
Pause before crystal streams?
Find fresh air above the tree-line?
Or will they lose heart
Overheat
Retreat in steam and smoke
Make eyes run and throat burn
And slide harmlessly into tepid water?