to the contents page.)
cold this
is sunlight
feeding in the dark recesses of candour;
he reaches out, tentative and still
a little shaky - a rupturing of the cell
walls, the heat gone, and brittle with
sudden freezing. And he couldn't
tell whether or not the shiver in his spine
was from the cold, or premonition of
a new and faceless future -
he held a future in his head a while,
divining something that he couldn't
quite grasp.
And how could I know it was new? there
being no features to distinguish between.
I only know that somewhere in the
twistings of black cat's-cradles, stars lie;
this is enough sorrow - let the exploration
of it finish soon...
quickly, let it finish.
(In its eyes
move red flecks, float mute and unwashed
specks of fear. It's terrified of tears
now, watches women (watches their
wet mouths) laugh at its anxiety -
they're laughing now, look.
And wants them, wants to dry their
mouths with fear, with begging...)
In these silences white crevices appear,
sightless and uneven - the softness of this
melancholy's worse, is somehow sharper
than mere harshness would be. And that is not
a tear; is just a ripple of regret, warm,
softened, penetrating. But he can't know
whether or not the connection is made, he
can't know whether the unmelted snows are
still lying deep in the hollows of the
seasons... hands are here with him, gently
beneath and lifting him, easing his lacerated
body, his limbs held.
Not in the circlings of lakes, or in the
slow journeys of birds flying across
bounded distance.
Quickly, let it finish.
( to the contents page.)