Friday, April 22, 2011


mist becomes the ghost
you thought your father was

when praying all those
ticked out minutes

before the sheetslap
a body bagged with night

complicated, cold wrapped
round your feet and feelings

and disappeared from there
once the eyeshut shut

trapping your mind inside
but so far in it seemed

no measure could capture
that distance

what it means to be
dead is no language

and single syllables beat
their one-stroke hearts

into how we know this

1 comment:

gideon sockpuppet said...

"and single syllables beat
their one-stroke hearts" - perfect line!