WEBVTT

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And this one,

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"What We Need Words For."

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"Each morning his baby fingers
clack on the electronic keys

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of the obsolete typewriter that
my father left us when he died.

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And what my son hears and loves
is the sound of his own fingers

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clattering into the world.

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The zing of the carriage return.

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The space bar like
a runaway train,

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clicking through the
letters that he is only

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beginning to recognize.

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The hunt and peck
of his own name.

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We all stumble into
ourselves like this.

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Fitting our fingers to
the shape of letters

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while the page
gallops out of reach.

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And then we suddenly
find it's loss

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that drives him to the words.

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Trying to pick out his
own name among whatever

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it's attached to himself,
whatever he longs to answer.

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Relating each day a
letter to his sister

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now gone from home
far away in college.

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The page, when it
rolls off the cylinder,

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is full of the rhythm
of his furious digits.

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All drive and urgency
of expression.

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A jumble of letters and numbers
not words, not legible text,

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but a sea of drift.

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And yet at times in the
broken lines a name,

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a word floats up into view.

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The first legibility of the
heart, its exacting infancy.

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Whoa.

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Whoa.

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Your brother, Jacob."

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