Narrative twisted into air, Caleb, as to make it fly.
Doug
On 28-Mar-07, at 1:25 AM, Caleb Cluff wrote:
> The boy fell from the factory roof. Or off, singing as he went,
> carolling through mini-atmospheres. His breath
> is one song, and the building sings within him as he falls.
>
> Behind him, the sawtooths make their rip along the sky,
> staccato hips of grey asbestos. Empty factory, silent factory
> but for its song, the canticles of glass rising, the sub tuums of stone
> waiting
>
> to meet the boy, who fell for love of climbing
> and seeing; whose refrain is that of the tower we scale
> to fall from. Or off.
>
> Caleb Cluff
> Majorca, VIC
> 28/03/07
>
>
>
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Douglas Barbour
11655 - 72 Avenue NW
Edmonton Ab T6G 0B9
(780) 436 3320
http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
Latest book: Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=664
No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no
symphony for the listener.
Walter Benjamin
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