23 February 2024

Postcard 213

And still it seeps, quartz common.

This is how it is, countless,

restless and disconnect --

Abundant as rubble

Our voice follows the world

underpressured to

impotent collapse --

derelict of shelter-form

Seeping our eyes dry

cordite dusts everything,

bitter coats our pen-springs --

abrading our ocher mouths

Aclutter we're undone of answer,

and take last lidless refuse in song.

Why mark time? To stomp the pain

to glass. It pours like sand.

Our words spill and crumble

without poetry, what that is.

Artfullness will do no good --

no clean sheets. no silence