Here at the halls beneath canopy of roots
We’ve trespassed in stealth among beavers
and worms
That scatter into hundreds of tunnels
they’ve drilled
In search of our scraps full of forgettable
trace
That somehow might weave a new pattern for
a code,
Joined into syntax of chromosomal nodes.
I’ve filled in my forms and quietly now
wait
And browse through the volumes of
disposable thought.
Wonder what lies in the archival shelves,
Now beneath cobwebs of unshakeable dust,
That sweeps through my heart and harks for
a name
In these our nights full of murders on
streets.
Ripened to the core, new fruits now will
burst
And dripping with blood shall drench our
roots.
Shorn of all stars, we wander and grope
And bide our time with snakes within sand.
Excavating scrolls that’ll wither in a
trice
My uncertain purpose will hardly suffice.
Is this then a show? Digression in vain?
How else to now sew this rent piece of
time,
That serves as a window to entrails of
shame
Here, in the ebbtide of shingles unswept?
Fearful of streets that’ve spawned so much
gore
I snuggle into pages from time’s torrid
womb
And dream of new days from truncated
scrolls,
Cosy in chairs full of cushions and lace.
