_the politics of writing and reading in a time of torture, or, we,
the coterie, unblogged_
Describing the river, I flow like a drain fed lake,
while in expressing myself, I become the butcher bird
crying in a tree,
so I tell stories to order the day: sit, grind, pound and fly away,
until, eventually, in reflecting the world
I eagle home away to a wild place
making things make do
until the words cry
I am the wholeness I am not
in you that you saw in me
searching for rare words among the tumbled querns
and so the flour cakes my beak and the ink tears
drip down the mountain to the sea,
before we remember to breath.
|