March 16, 2005

Sitting on the balcony edge
a thought (it flew past her like the sparrows in spring) whispered in the ear next to her
a small crack, a slip, a tumbling ectstacy of reliefe, a hole and an endless darkness. they called it cure.
Cure? cure. …cure. cure…
questions, intonations, interpretations. fingers
gripping, gripping hard like the first time on a merry-go-round,
one small edge not quite sharp enough to instill waking pain.
no falling, no push, no cure.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: