Monday, September 21, 2009

The lines never come out smooth
Eraser marks still tremble
Over the marks that grimly cling
And shuffle themselves akilter
On the white tiling of the page
No matter how much sweat greases
The wheels of your attention
The lines always crinkle
Where the edges meet your fingertips
Forever out of grasp
Forever the magpie with the wedding band
Tucked determinedly in the nest weave
Symbolising nothing.
at

How do I lose myself?

I am not easily misplaced Or forgotten, Arriving as I do Before even the curtains draw And that first morning jug boils, Bleary, yes Grudgin...

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