In My Shifts

1 August 2015

I come in with language
I come out of.
Its weed, its shrill bugs.
A harvest, a rot, a dervish.
Cooked into night.
Swum from beginnings.
Patterns at the bottom of a pool.
Something that doesn’t fit.
That shifts and fills
my face with stone air
sweet fetid sound
or I sit down with it.

If it feeds me or anyone.
Perhaps with the birds.
Perhaps with imprecation.
Perhaps with what
the sun and rains
tell me, perhaps today.
With my feet muttering.
With technique and nurture.
And my hand that allows
me to come
in with language
then without.

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