9


Wind blown dead words drift
Written each time just the same
Painful, that at least new
The body knows
Little tricks of the cells, tricks
Of words

Match in their play
A kind of grid then
Things held just briefly enough
Swept out later, clean to the bone
The broken structures remain
A long drift over and away
Covered again with decay
Dead blown leaves

Caught again, cover
Slowly shifting modes
Organise
Begin just to string