How a Book Becomes Lascaux

Mistaken for words,
I am pictures of sound,
and sound— pictures of talking flesh.
I break from the hand.

From ochre spit
to scribbled script to screen, sans serif
Ariel usurping time’s new Roman,
black curled, looped and deaf.

However drawn, my pages get inside,
paint worlds on your rough walls.
If someone lit a fire in you,
prehistory would revolve.


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