the interval flames, matter opening
winds change the road
you laugh, in order to feel the air
the bird of the thing

blue origin of colour crawls through the loess
forms dull you, you think
your fusion can hope to escape force of breakdown
with which we worried

take a number to the left of the eye
insane life, a strange ugly place
comes as liquid from a germ of method
means spillage on the track

these: the pouch of language in violent space
the feed of soil which formed sun’s rivers, chamfered
the muddle of air, collapse of topography
the end of output

yet dark manuscripts escape the interior animal
a tentacle writes to you
from within form, from spirals
from designs which tear through the whole

load questions in the tongue’s worm hole
take a walk in all directions, write them


Louise said…
wow - this poem is a beauty - great to see you back on blog and full steam ahead...
Jill Jones said…
Hi Louise, I've had some interesting times - which are continuing in a different vein - but one keeps on, if sporadically.

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