Syntax

Every word begs for its position,
like the silver in a cupboard,
knife next to knife,
a noise next to its echo.

The spoon sometimes falls away.
I stumble upon it under the table, 
covered with dust.
Still it knows its shape.

Grammar is nothing but a kind of mercy:
we develop structure
so the sentence won't drown.

A poem has its own punctuation:
commas of foam, an em dash against stone,
words whose meaning litters coastlines 
like the dark calligraphy of driftwood,
altering us continually into definition.