There is the ink in stink and think.
In pink and wink and rinky dink.
Even oink contains ink. My hand
would be gliding over this page, leaving
nothing behind but a blinding blizzard
of nothingness if it were not for the ink
in pen, printer, printing press. If not
for ink, you would be holding a rock,
staring at some newly cut grooves,
shaking your head. If not for ink, you
would be staring at a cloud in the sky,
reading what the wind wrote there,
swaying a bit in the breeze.
