17 May 2010

Literator

Literator 5/17

The words are ashen-
burn holes in the paper
a fingering of hollow space

Thinking sent into sky offering
the clouds something to build
storms

Books will unhinge themselves will
come out of shelves tossing
leather at wondering animals

And you are the opening shot
clenching jaws holding
doors open for the flowing page

What purpose this drowning
this wavering hand
What can one see through the holes?