Thursday, 11 October 2012

The Sculptor

I think of you, always at a loss
not for words but for their meanings, stacked
some like skeletons disinterred from catacombs 
others like drunks on  cathedral steps seeking 
the forgiveness of proximity to a fading truth.

You take my words now, scrape them with spurls
you sculptor, removing  lumps and edges 
hiding the animal in your mind,
its appetites and irrepressible id.

At this moment of recollection
finding in our room the smell of old words,
loam on a forest floor fit to nourish new life,
I wonder at the shapes we make between our lips
and at what new meaning lingers there.