Here we are, Your Helplessness, a torn photograph
of a baby on a bed. Fatface and monochrome, it
looks like another world, as strange as Mars.
I wonder what awaits it, this almost blank slate
that still looks as if an embodiment of joy.
Perhaps it is the body of what falls, unaware
of the form it now wears. It will learn, learn
how to fail, of how the now on which it lies
will become the now in which it lies. Peace
be with you, scrot-piece papered in my hand,
your life-line light like a feather in my mind,
little creature, remembered body, that once
was mine. The photo was long ago
destroyed.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Spectare's Web, A Chide's Alphabet
& Painting Without Numbers
http://www.chidesalphabet.org.uk
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