Posted by: scintillatingspeck | March 23, 2013

The landscape of utterance.

In the long silences,
wastelands where the dead trunks
of branching words stand jaggedly,
I stand by a frozen lake
upon which whirl little snow-vortices
in the ceaseless wind,
the only exhalation.

I dream of a distant, lush forest
of conversation, its animated
mosses, its excitable
ferns, its towering
statements of oak and hornbeam.

It’s not enough to point
my wistful, whispering, bluish lips
towards that vast, verdant ear-

you’d best insist on
dragging me there,
or lend me your horse
of galloping courage,
brown flanks warm and sure.



  1. Lovely.

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