The gouge is in the fibres
As if permanence were
dependant
Solely on the fury of the hand
Each syllable a bird
Chiselling the sky
Not a cloudbleak day
But
Lines challenging erasure
As if this were a palimpsest
For a greater world
Where all the fragments
I forgot
Cajoled
In the dance of thunder
A trailed whisper
The shock yet to come
I pour out the glass
Shake the aching in my wrist
Bone cracking like the onset hail
Are you listening
Through the detritus of time
Dig a little deeper
Strata weak as flesh
Fissile as a moment’s lost idea
Mostly illegible
The space between the lines
has more to say
We ache the way
The minotaur does
In our maze
Divided
The string is frayed
Ariadne, shorn of her display
Knits up time again
The hammer knock
Of the torn page
Throw it out a crumpled
Day
til lost
