Thursday, January 29, 2009

some few particulars

Of boy and rock and train and time
when you gripped a rock in hand as
you crouched for the train to pass.
Inert, held by the absent speech-
filled self on that tension drilling day.
Rock. Hand. Heat. Crow?
Ruins are made in revising.
And so being overfills its waiting
and whiteness of stone and whiteness
of flesh collide as that moment unfolds,
folds out toward you, rushing
the train toward you as you rise
into your tightly wound purpose:
one second of release into violence
to find a flooded emptiness
in an impress of rock.

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