It Did. It Felt New
I touch nothing. Name me the flower: rose
bud, rose leaf – attar blown to atom. Drink
to me only with thine eyes. Then oust
jasmine light and unbolt air so I succumb to
coal and myrrh and peach and hay, and rise.
Be my impatience. Words are the gloves I
strip to know the world and slip this skin, to
nebulise a sky-bright, gold-soaked field of
reeds hip-high and winds that lift each dot I
speak. Soothe me to weakness. Knock me
reeling to the snow till neither name nor
look nor scent but stroke of heat will
pulverise and spiral up this dust of self and
then – word-bright flecks drift down again.
I touch nothing. Name me the flower: rose
bud, rose leaf – attar blown to atom. Drink
to me only with thine eyes. Then oust
jasmine light and unbolt air so I succumb to
coal and myrrh and peach and hay, and rise.
Be my impatience. Words are the gloves I
strip to know the world and slip this skin, to
nebulise a sky-bright, gold-soaked field of
reeds hip-high and winds that lift each dot I
speak. Soothe me to weakness. Knock me
reeling to the snow till neither name nor
look nor scent but stroke of heat will
pulverise and spiral up this dust of self and
then – word-bright flecks drift down again.
Published in
14 Magazine 2, no.2 (2022)
Published in
14 Magazine 2, no.2 (2022)