Wednesday, 7. January 2004
A man looks at his watch
Cups, mouths filling and emptying
Talk. Hands waving the slight ribbon
Of winter cold.
Books, sonars Of a searching soul, weaving an incidental Tapestry of two signals.
First, silken, hushed with rain, yours. Second, coarse, maniacal, hurled Over an asylum wall, mine.
Other truths? They were revealed By simply watching how your Body moved.
Another evening has passed, apparently. The only sign it has left is this dismembered Time, wrapped around my wrist, Which I now look at disbelievingly.
2004:01:03 21:15 Atlanta
My Poems
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