Beyond white walls of tinnitus,
and thrutchings of a trampoline,
beyond a jittering weave of birds
and blues of dogs in lonely chains,
singly-strung the long-weekend*
Sunday roads' respite,
trailing a cruising wave,
what do I strain to listen for,
struggle to hear?
I am empty of a word from who
breathes these streams of syllables to me:
I have no wheel or wing or cry
to bear me through that
rain-glass-bead-curtain
where Love sits to compose
the worlds her children play in.
............
*Sunday before a bank holiday Monday..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
