Alison
Croggon
| Two
untitled poems she never cried she never tumbled into that wet mouth she drew such leachings of drought over the paper sky that birds perched gasping on branches she found herself lipless turned back to the bony night each star pitiless the moon tugging her down to blasted seas she uttered stones the words curled up in spiders of dust she felt rain pulse against her skin but all her dreaming could not think itself past those horizons of parched white the whiter flame the sun whose voice rose so white and burned * The poet has no identity. She is an electrical cloud she is a swarm of bees she is a kabuki scream she is a shadow on the blind the plates in a cupboard the roar of trucks on a freeway. She is the fiery neurone and the mark on a piece of paper. She speaks on the telephone into the ether. No one there. Maybe it is god. She writes her body with the tips of her fingers but it is no longer her body. The words are not her they belong to nobody. She writes to slough off her name. She speaks to become invisible. She desires to become what she is. When she wakes into her name it is falling asleep again. When she dreams she forgets. She is blind. She has the power of flight. Back
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