Friday, 18 May 2012


If today touched me with its paper hands
Wings of light, white walls
And shadow clocks
If it greets me like a familiar song
I used to hum
Lost pages of a notebook
Or words in a foreign language
I will come undone like a ball of wool
My grandmother used to fashion
Into sweaters.
And ache, like aged, cracking spines of books
Covered with dust and webs of memory
Creak in solemnity, like chairs of my family
Shy away like sparrows in their nests.
And wonder if today shades
Me like a bending tree
A vine to a wall
If it encloses its arms around me
Like a pomegranate shell.
Out on the streets, where
Every wound is open and
Every tale is old.
Where I trudge, with my
Bed of flames, my sea of lies
And stab the dark with my words
That do not touch you.
Frail words, bound by a shallow surface
As useless as a scar with no stories to tell.
So tell me you need my touch
As your candle burns slow
And your flame stands still
My embrace of bones draped in skin.

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