Terry D. Sutherland

THE NOVELIST

The collocation of his words
A colored lexicon by chance
Shows what he’s walking towards
Giving structure a fleeting glance

The order is honed precise
The subject is most obscure
Each left to imagined devise
Interpretation left demure

Whitewashed with colored words
Taming a palette wild and free
Leaving a stream of words to ford
And the alphabet a boiling sea

The stream flows true and deep
With debris left on its banks
Often profound meaning seeps
Out of the simple soundless ranks