Thursday, December 6, 2012

The Start of It


This is the start of it:
the clay palm hitting the face,
bags packed, colours away;
all my flares quenching into the distance. 

It begins: the spectrum loses a stripe,
the red berries fall,
light leaves;
morning’s a corpse. 

This is the way of it: 
table set and unset, crossed knives and forks:
insignia of the tamed and helpless;
rain dribbling, failed  flames. 

This powder insistence:
stampede of padded hooves,
retreat to reverse;
the days worn thin with walking back and forth

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