They stare into the stinging wind and the
World drags on. The search goes on. The fresh light
Fails briefly and tears are a revelation.
Out of tomorrow; the muscular flex
Brings it for at worst negative reward,
At best nothing. The sightless windows at
The edge reflect the inside, the touch an
Offering out in short circuit. Singly
They glance at each other, "we draw the truth
>From the burning," shiver. Passing shadows.
Flittering pale, lighting mute relief, the
Distraction of silence beyond a soft
Roar of rubber on tarmac. The breath of
Wreckage aside from a calculation
Of suffering; what is the potential
Of sympathy? Outside crass reflex chat.
Turn and pace and breathe gently. Dream the words
Softly to fringe the encounter beyond,
Beyond grasping. Primary meat, the touch
Feeds. Slow lightning crackles in darkness.
Apologies for the previous blank posting - I
pressed enter by mistake.
Any comments would be much appreciated, if awaited with some trepidation.
This is just a small part of a larger work-in-progress, provisionally
entitled "Circle", but probably to be called "We Revolve Perhaps in This".
Cheers,
Jon Clay
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