An ink account

I've fallen,

like ink

upon a discontented page,

smudged sensibilities,

and erased coherence.

I've fallen like dead leaf

and apple,

and lie among remnants

the archival memories

visited infrequently.

you came like dew,

and the worlds became green,

your words and silences

wrote the poetry of the impossible,

the softest hurts,

the sharpest caressing.

And I cannot write,

not of leaf, dew or relevant landscapes,

I can write perhaps of dust

and other sad things.

[From my collection, 'Threads', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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