Wednesday, May 10, 2006

words from the edge of a book (for Flann O'Brien)

chall reads;
black letters swim
about me.
i lose threads
but others take me away,
into and under
elusive tendrils
of meaning.
i am captured in breathing,
spun grateful
into sleep.
his head perches
centimetres from mine,
my mind
is eloping
backwards in time.
his voice is dark, smooth,
not like honey
but more
deep molasses
over rocks,
on the hottest
and I am drying up
with a word
that is useless,
fire to my brow,
under deadly sleepness.
bones to slender toes
to neck line
and drifting jaw,
the final tethered line
is two dimensional;
sound's failure.
the last word



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