These slow-flow taps in thin, dull
stream
mock my clock-watch, time-torn
non-thoughts -
why leave it to the last tick-tock
to trap some mood, some joy, the
rage
of all my life, my loves, till
now?
Soft-white, sheep-fleece foam
gloves my hands,
stains the pad, strips out the
blue lines
which I meant to guide me
straight, home;
leaves strange space here and
there to tease
the mind when back it goes to
trace
the words with which I hoped to
reach some end.
No time for more - with care I
rinse
each nerve that flies straight
back to base
to tell the brain of my sheer
fall,
my lack of joy in swoosh and
splash,
in loll and roll and rest and
ease;
I pull the plug on time and drain
my mind; I climb to try to dry,
to clutch my clothes, my keys, my
car -
and this strange damp page of my
life.
(September,
1992)
