Friday, June 17, 2005

On The Scent

I. Sounds Like Dinner

Rectangle scratchings
are amplifying those sections of carpet
in the sunlight. Or
a radio desultorily weaves
brown, tan and grey curls
of polyester...This loom unravels
on the last pages
of the down-turned novel.
A denouement of hunger
towards the kitchen. Your hand on the ice tray.
Your body against the light. A slip
over the story. Unfinished. Leaving
a bread-trail of pages.

II. Death Toll

The space before me was a road,
an overlay of lichen, a plateau where trees
were flattened to the height of a man. Behind,
a foolscap page with the signs
of a traceless murder: eraser-hairs, abrasive valleys
and rifts of pen depressions.

The telephone number was a key,
untouched by arithmetic. A convention of wanting
to speak. A blotter filled with marginalia:
curly-headed boys with tails and horns,
a Cheshire-Cat smile of missing teeth, an aerial
making ripples in the paper.

The imagery here is reminiscent of the one in dream sequences. ^_^ I am swept away.

Been scrolling down to check out previous posts. I really, really liked "The Desert Song." You do have a masterful grasp of words.
Thanks, soulless!
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