Saturday, February 6, 2010


There is, strung randomly across
the barren edgy arms of winter trees in me,
the thinnest tattered linearity, a ragged
flapping sentience which absorbs the freeze

and buffeting of glaring heatless
February sun, soaks up the suffering in its red
silent screaming as it sets – witnesses
how this begets the onset of indifferent night:

there is in this deteriorating light,
and in this shredded silk thread’s vacillating –
alternately limp and tight – attention to it,
the profoundest gladness and delight.


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