Albeit

If all writing was real albeit
There would be no sense in the solitary,
Where we reach over,
Touch and brush pass the Other,
Into the single deportation,
Coined by structural proportion.

Find your rhythm not in the word
But in the past, the formation
That falls into your lap
Like picture or the shared vision.

The book like the facilitation
Oscillation of the words fate (dialogism),
Where the ending is never given
And the metalanguage is never taught,
And the stopping is besides
The transition in which function resides.