(By Sil, Hanging Bank Cottage, the18th of June, 2011)
I sit with you
In the terror
Of your precision
Words become
Little toy-cars
I cannot kick-start
The wiring and the track
Seem intact
But the flow is not the circuitry
Puzzled, I silently sulk
I have but a map of your world
Etched in my mind
A mute story of fear and dread
Of turning away
Of Protest’s
Hardened bread
I make a mistake
And then another
There’s no other way to communicate
That I wear the coat of your language
Second hand
That like you I swim
In turbulent waters
Not walk on solid middle-ground
I know all too well the taming powers
Of correction
Delivered with a heavy hand.
With every swipe you take
With every tiny speck
Of imprecision removed
There’s less and less of us
Communication is
A Strange Attractor
Forever gravitating
Around an empty space
Once you remove all error
There’s nothing left but
The silent perfection
Of a white page
Thursday, 23 June 2011
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