it’s hard to press an alphabet
of words into twelve lines
that point to one last thought
we extend to our lives
yet twelve is one-half more
than western music’s scale
that swells to chords
and four times more
than primary colours
that spread to blended hues –
surely then our minds will
tune and shade a lettered text
so flexed with fitting hints
we glean tomes from scant gist

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)