Monday, October 02, 2006

untitled poem

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:

bereweber said...

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