. . . edge;
Tracing a finger slowly down the skin of words,
crossing scar tissue, nodes of meaning left behind,
I determine the depth of what I have to say.
Yet, the surface contains more than I can handle.
The storm rages across the Atlantic, waves clash
like mountains into continents, while below fish
swim aware of the air only as an absence.
A foolish thing to rely on memory thus:
I scream when alone comforted by echoes
that return altered enough to seem no longer
a part of me. The difference between myself
and the world balances upon a nebulous
fulcrum. The words I use provide the scale’s arm
with indecision: an agglutination of
views, shaping my sense as a rasp drawn ‘cross the grain
rips the natural inclination of the wood.
A foolish thing to rely on memory thus,
so we call out one to the other hoping that
what we say will transcend our ephemeral trust:
(from Primogenitve Folly, August 2001-April 2003)
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