March 31, 2011 § Leave a comment
Arriving madly and badly is the wind, here, again. The woman’s house is wooden, and its walls quiver in anticipation of our voices. When I am reading, I feel the air escape the chimney behind me, come forth to kiss my hairline come. Glasses off, on.
It’s the evening and we’re all okay with words now. The cats climb up towards the sounds and mouths and the move, the way in which we might.
Glorious is the floor and the wind around the close.
Glorious is the wee’in you shoulder over, back and over, shudder.
Let me in, she is weeping, let me in.
I have tapped four times and still forgotten are our rhymes. Like lying twisted, like letters. I’m always the end of a word, and you an ‘I’. And the sheets dots. And the tiles and ceiling, lines.
And the arms, calligraphic chains. Never go, the form and the shape and the shadow cry, never let go.