The spellbound ear sucks in noise
random as nature, or inevitable as moths
at a bedside lamp in August:
month of dusty pages turned
before another year’s fall, another
unconclusion reached and left aside.
Written in the fissures
of change, of anticipation,
labour sweats from every barely woken pore,
oozes miasmic, and seeping venous
to the river, hears daylight
yawn at its own sultry waxing.
viii.94
Northwards Now #14, 2010
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