Thursday 11/09/2006 12:15:00 AM

We would lay there. Trumped by the limits of our endurance. Counting footsteps on the sidewalk outside. People walking away from. Curious enough to try. Someone else. A new lover. A new cage. Rearranging the prison to suit the confined.

He would sing sometimes. Stretching his voice to meet the song. He would play guitar with both eyes. Making love to a voice he hadn't seen in years.

We were never close enough that I couldn't see. How far.

We would lay there. Stiff nails in soft coffins. And wait.


For the shovel to speak.

We would lay there. Tortioses unconcerned with the race. Just trying to move.


In the shadow of the hare. Red sheets without a wound.

We would wait. Not knowing where to listen.

We would wait.

For the hole to measure us.

RuKsaK said...

A lot of your poems seem to have beds or lying down featured in them. I like how you said 'we would lay there. Trumped by the limits of our endurance.' I'm not sure you know how good that is. Seriously - that has more depth to it than anything I've read recently and I mean it.

Have you read 'More than cool reason: a field guide to poetic metaphor' :

I recommend it hugely - it's fairly heavy, but quite mind-blowing and plays a very frequent influence in what I write.

My god! I must be gushing because I almost never talk about my influences - I find it so pretentious to do so.

So, I'll shuffle off now.

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