ground now

mob violence, the eternal font turned read
stain consciousness, flogs sink in, read
and read unceasingly enclosed in the heat
of heart smacking you about the inner ear
lobes red with excited fear, smoke, dust motes
yourself in the shaft of sunlight, all specks
from black angel’s wings. Blink
the breath of chest of cat matches
that of your own. Eye the rhythm of real time
cover lowered try to follow the cat curled in sleep,
touch what is, listen, no screams, no violent nausea,
no hunger, no chill of coatless cold, wet kisses
of snow, romantic keepsakes of ache, no sunset-glasses
of doom, no fomenting, tormenting abuse. Use your
fingerprint, feel the pulp of page, feel air gap
as other timelines out of time fall away, collapse in
to ink on ink, nightmares of a child.

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2 Comments

  1. Art in ‘ink’

    To me the mark of a good poem is being able to feel the rhythm rumbling deep within the inner recesses of your brain as you read. An inherent musical beat. I felt this reading your work. Congrats on a good job.

    Michele sent me tonight.

    Sandy

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