Like some body left in an harbour, it is
what bloodies our hands that we wake to

the red reeling of time and bleakness behind what
questions us each morning as we jog

memories for the short end of the string,
explanations that floated on night’s bobbing belly,

water logged guilt, and the heavy quilted coat
that holds us down. And we worry not

about the words that should have been
said because we know they won’t be found

as we walk this pier, uncertain
about everything except that light

surely dies when we’re surrounded
by no one.

This entry was posted in Mina Loy. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s