It was the night before tomorrow. It was slouching in the bruises in worn leather. Extrapolating memory from the scratches on the floor. Looking down. And across. For scars. Of any sort. The secret photographs the room had taken of when.
Scribbling in the silence. Like it was looking at itself from the other side of the lens. Everything much smaller than it really was. Failing outlines seeking a center.
The night before. Amok in love's daunting puberty.
The night after. Stunned and grizzled like like so many broken veins still attached to their needles.
High enough to see it down there. That spectrum of a person who names her colors arbitrarily. By the knots in her hair. Still left over. By the spit on her lips that still carries the taste. Of the night before tomorrow. Of the life before and after this.
Wednesday
11/22/2006 12:31:00 AM
wow. thanx.
have a good holiday.
veronica is right - lovely rhythm and very esoteric and grounded at the same time - which for me sums up your writing in a way.
thank you ruk.
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