the ink

Ocean black. The dark of, the nearly unlimited dark of, the dark of ocean, unlimited. Ink from a dark ocean.
An endless stream of words and thoughts, letters, novels, poems, and all of that ink spoiled on a page in front of me. (1) The letter I receive from a lover
begins with
(a) Tantalus black
(b) the untouched shape of white paper
(c) a Shostakovitch string quartet
pure as it is, and (2) available
as caps, as pencil stumps, utopia, in a bottle, dried sleeves with or without frost, mental supplements adding the unspeakable,
reason, talk and an extra on how to learn more on what the other said, added to the catalogue.

Ocean black is ocean black.
Ocean white is ocean white.
Ocean is both black and white.

We have it red dots on black ink. Or from ocean darker than the one you had. Let me see. This black is turquoise. This one effortless offers the endless blank. This is nineteenth, this is twentieth. This is murder, this a poem. Walk through the unseen landscape. Cities burn and from what it left as if nothing happens.