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Lines

Jonty Driver

For a time now, one has had inklings -
Flakes off arrowheads, sawdust under beams,
Blots when the pen paused at a spelling -
That one’s brain is beginning to splinter:
Names on the edge which won’t fall over,
Days submerging, dates slipping (last July,
I said, when I knew I meant January),
Places gone missing (you know, that town
We lived in, the one with a river, willows,
The shallow dam where the children swam) -
And words never consciously used before
Come plopping up like bubbles in a mud-bath:
Mordant, moiety, minuscule,
(Biting, half-share, tiny)
And why did meniscus surface next
Crescent-shaped from the word-bank?
And then everything all at once
As when the printer suddenly sticks
And the last few lines are a smudge of black -
Or simply nothing, just the empty page ...




LitNet: 14 February 2006

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