Sieving

None may enter this page
but from the faltering sieve
that is my brain

Grey to white;
White space curled apart
by these spider italics.

Art is part of it.
The art of the hourglass
where the sieve is a singleton  hole.

And I can turn one away from
the other, but always:
The sand blisters down ---

Granular words stream on
until the container ends.
Then we recycle communication
from our brain.

Registering a different sieve  hole
from the same place to here;
A different but similar page.

I let my sieve silt-sift,
hoping not for spaghetti, but  gold.