What I own is less
than is encompassed
by a pinch of dust:
the particles between my thumb
and fingertip speak aeons.
What I own is absences
of what can make
life rich and round:
qualities of sound
dispelling arid silences.
There is still the haunting scent
of other seasons: summers spent
beneath a less judgemental sun,
springs afloat with lotuses.
Autumn brings its burnished
pomegranates almost within reach:
love's exiled spectre strives to touch
the surfaces of speech.
From behind the razor wire
precluding hope of comprehension,
withered buds and scattered petals
still recall their jouissance.
What signifies?
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105060500316
Свидетельство о публикации №105060500316
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