Saturday, September 22, 2012

A Poem

This wing's air wheezes dust,
Day wrought grey by crosshatch screen.
It's quiet time.
Four steps across my room
Four from wall to wall.
If I focus I can find the pattern.

Glue glitter on workbook pattern.
Press into paste metalic dust.
No break in the wall.
No bar to pry the screen.
Shuffle every tangent cross the room
Cold and smeared for all time.

That first time,
Lost in orange mottled carpet pattern
Chanting cross the room,
Ashimmer, every thought burst to dust.
Then on your knees behind the screen.
Shackles bolted to the wall.

Paste it to the wall,
For all the watchers of time.
On every whispering screen
A pattern
Battles dust
For the honor of burying me in this room.

There's no room
Beyond the wall,
Only rubble and dust.
A place outside time.
A readymade pattern.
A silk screen.

They installed the screen
To crowd my will from the room
With pat pattern
Patter banking off blank wall.
So there is no time,
Only layers of dust

Screen upon wall.
Room swelled with time.
Pattern in dust.