Drifts

 

Like waking stark up

from a winter of dreaming

the sawdust of snow dust-clouding across,

sweeping, then pounding like

raps on a door, nagging at

sockets to remember their use,

not holes in a skull but sight

sewed up in sleep,

to rip out the thread

with original gaze, behold

a lost origin,

so jagged,

so fearsome,

a continent screaming,

wind rushing and scraping,

white layering endless

in contours and blurs, cold carving

out substance and absence in turns.

I'd forget I was ever a man if I could,

the instant I remembered!

 

Pronouns are dirty, my first

s**t in the snow, sun's melting my

wonder into a sludge of unknowns,

the structures that sunk,

the walls that have gone.

 

I wander in snow, and wonder, in snow,

if the stuff in my mind will finally go,

or now that I'm up, will it pile right up?

Reviews

[The Representative]

Great finish - great great finish.

From reality, sleep can be a refuge.





(I don't now mind sending you The Representative, Thaddius: it had been you, who'd given me the first worthy of critiques, back in March of this year - it would now actually feel fitting for it to be you, who offers me the very first wholesome review.)


I promise - this is a presentation of literature that's just as relevant to you and to everyone else as is it to me.


Without saying anymore about it, I'll now just finish, saying about The Representative the very same thing that to others I've said about it:


It's the answer.