I walk to the oak grove and write the birds, the tangle of wood, the fire, the bombs, the Anschluss, but the full pages are impotent. I am a hollow bead of fear. I made eye contact with myself in the syringe today, in the bubble I flicked up and pushed out. How much longer will I be able to take my medicine? The turtle’s shell turns to sludge and scabs. Where is the war poet, the love object, the street-punks? Look with me, upturn rocks to find wet earth and the things that put their bellies to the ground.
No comments:
Post a Comment