Tuesday, April 05, 2011


It moves in him, strong as seizure
but soft, the glottal convulsions.

Out of the mind’s muscle,
 words rise to be spat
 the story inside him
struggling to eat its way out.

 That’s not what I meant
Words are full of holes, glaring, glaring.

In the cool cave of thought
 his twisted root leads backwards and forwards
along the slippery streets
between teeth and lips.

No comments: