my word isn’t blood or milk
spilt or symbolical of it.
i’m cut by what’s
remembered, what is not
& the gap, a flat windy lot
that rings like wooden chimes.
for days, as mice play in the cracks
between my toes & fingers,
i lie in the hollows or high
billowing like wheat the colour of hair.
there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations
of sky & mountain
where i hear myself, think.
thanks John
Wonderful.