8 March 2014


The body cannot contain it. Slips out. It flows.
In throes. Blows low, it slows.
And gushes out.
Now. On the brow. Corner of the eye.
Toe curling, soul stirring, bony.
Hard, simmering soft, brushes against, purring past.
Like the song that played last.

Unanswering, hidden sneeze fills up invisible room.
Dances in disguise.
Releases. Relocates. Recites.
Unheard. Speaks in black and blue.
Exists. Slowly simpers, learns, lingers..
Mirrors the night. One hair at a time.
It listens quietly. It rhymes.

It settles in the corner. Of my sight.
Middle of the unmade mind.
Leans against a quiet heart, it knows.
The history of a sigh, the life of a lie.
By drums, by bells, by blowing shells.
A poem sits by the door.
Leaves cover a wild garden. An old tree silently grows.

Unhurried feet. Absent feet. Imaginary feet.
A welcome mat seat. An irregular beat.

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