THE SECOND DAY                                                  (Jan 09)


falling in voice
                               taste
                                                 filigreed relish
          memory
                                    braids ribs
                                                            with fingers
                      oblique
                                                 fleshmix
                                                                       here

tugged insistence
                                   unspoken
                                                            suddenly
           big room
                                       too  
                                                            small
                     undoes me
                                                 caution
                                                                       a spillage of

nude


               turning over

sooty newsprint tips women/again/
crying their naked loss lens-flared
with rubble            without dignity
an other colour cliché dusted up
creased ink stain and exploit-action
Alice has it mirrored of the word
she moves the eye-stylus for/against
rubbing finger across images feeling
not facing nor faces can breach the line
from location la I stutter before you we
the importunity forces lips blast-wide
by screams or white light incumbents

                                                                                      it’s a new kind of love this evening
                                                                                   so fresh i sleep to name its taking me
                                                                                               tender in grasp, petalling face
                                                                                         & fingernails suffused, and yours


(he promised, he did)
wishing hard now that everyone could
give him up, but stories won’t leave edges
alone days lived without understanding
always a finger tip’s reach out of hers
why it is more tales come snap saturation
more brokenbabiesandcriesandlegsrunning
                                                                       you
                                                             have
                                                     a
                                        hand
                            full
                    of
          my
hair
stretched taut she lies floorward thinking beyond image or symbol to colour’s uncertainty
and three others intact stand one squats looking to not touch yet at the vulnerable surface
telling the day’s sun into aches and eyes floppy this time rinsed still without conviction
veined redness tints her in-looking for the others around near here perhaps without a
torch on the ward she shudders into stillness.