| |
In these dripping tap days
he and silence have companioned.
Content to blow smoke in
The face of a far away star
listening to the murmur
of motorways,
drinking spillages
from the moon
In the hope
a splinter of light
shall enter him
and spark
his engine
back to life.
The doctor speaks
of time
how the brain needs
to recover
to heal
to settle.
He says imagine
It were a jelly
stuck to the
cylinder of
a washing machine
in full spin.
Most mornings
when he awakes
to a certainty
called silence
he positions
himself by the
window
and grows hard
to the image
of the sun
rising from
the Lego brick high rise
Imagining
it were
the
breath of God.
Vincent James Turner
| Submitted Date |
: |
Tuesday, September 15, 2009 |
| Submitted Date |
: |
Tuesday, September 15, 2009 |
|
|
Poets
