Thinking within strict limits is stifling.
Whilst Viking knights fight griffins, I skirmish with riddling sphinx
(this sigil – I).
I print lists, filing things (kin with kin, ilk with ilk), inscribing this distinct sign, listing things in which its imprints is intrinsic.
I find its missing links, divining its implicit tricks. I find it whilst picnicking in Linz. I find it in Inniskillin; I find it in Mississippi. I find it whilst skiing Minsk.
(Is this intimism civilizing if Klimt limns it, if Liszt lilts it?)
I sigh; I lisp. I finish writing this writ, signing it, kind sir: NIHIL DICIT, FINI