renga
Wednesday, December 21st, 2005easing dark from home
fall slow, low light, that time may
freeze ‘neath my pencil.
products of night read at dawn,
words already alien.
my path follows afternoon deep, where
memory reversed in graphite treads.
***
i evacuate
with decay in tiny sparks
a beige doldrum day.
from prolonged deprivation
wrought dreams of detail emerge.
let them propagate.
pull a screen before bare walls
to etch life upon.
***
roads, written in grey glitter
draw deceitful exits home.
dew, grass, underfoot,
a live landscape killed by words.
written in grey lines.
give sleep to sprawl midmorning,
through puddles consuming cars.
***
grey lead draws onto
blank pages, intricacy that
lays fallow in grog.
sunlight through belaboured dust
blown from these leaves by movement
falls endlessly on
endless rooftops and collars
where i find my stride.
***
ends, alleys, brown afternoons,
post offices, sweatpants, blinds.
wayne, dinner alone.
breakfast alone. lunch alone,
parking. fort meyers.
median, fence, gate, alcove.
horizon bound between walls.
***
redundant routes etched incremental
bits that quell the fire of my minds tongue.
burn in slender grey traces across
bleached pastures emptied of history,
until pavement cakes the earth, until
words are my feet, and sleep is conquered.
old streets carried in tow, long since walked
pathways to their own transformation.
in my memory of all those weeks
a single, immense, confused, dense, week.
streets continuing on after sleep,
streets all are ones of my memory.
***
no movement beneath our sky
escapes its long winded curse.
though i feel action,
my own distant senses are
late, untrustworthy.
limp sheet, falling, blue,
on me entangled.
***
though i make movements,
i sense that i am stone sleep.
clutching old, free lines.
my reach not beyond this chair,
eyes have slowly atrophied.