Electric,
this fire burns
dreadful
and all at once
we are branded
survivors
or witless
shakers of
silence.
Once, you plucked
a thorn from this bush,
said,
take me to
tomorrow, there I will be
branches, there
I will know
sorrow
no longer
than these days. Battered
winds of empty
passing, corridors
are the ones winding
into concrete,
thin air.
A step at a time.
1 comment:
thin air and long waits
so good to read your words clare!
they take me back from office stupor to myself stupor inside, more familiar
monday and to read you, a clear mix ala clare now
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