Un-Inscribed

Matter,
we think of it like clumps of soil
rolling between our
Fingers. Not words on the page.
Words aren’t edible,
Grabable,
Sniffable,
Scratchable.
But haven’t they gotten between your nails?
Fed you until the first ice sun of April?
Could matter be an inky character,
like friends convened on the page.
In a cafe, have words never clutched your attention
so tightly that you try to bite your latte
Or drink your toast?
Why gift a book,
If you’re don’t carve your name
Against its carcus?
Like in an inscription lying on page 0,
The readers I know have heart-insignia’s
On the walls of their ribcage.