At some point we blur and blend, make a shape of life,
stop defining the end of our skin by where
others begin, just the touch of two not enough.
I'm not sure I knew this when I first noticed those
conjugal conjunctions, phonemes bled to one,
marks in those spaces that seem to want to say, More.
We crossed at and, at et, then began to mesh,
body and meaning, consecutive letters bent
from sound to grapheme to print strike to &.
Work, quiet symbols, what we wrap in on our selves,
an almost infinity, or infinity's
shape, almost. Two come one, struggling to stay bound.
From Whiteout (ECW, 2012) by George Murray.