The words floundering in a scene faintly familiar,
smiling faces with wrinkles that scare,
a solid plate – a broken disc.
This place seems dazzlingly bright
with sunny moons and golden mist,
to glaze on the round tables
with the white sheets.
And the people – standing replicas,
they pass their toes and hang their feet
they give their hands and poke their bows
in a slithering repeat.
And did you just say, play?
lay down and stay,
till these words
start make sense again?
And are there stunts within the world
that fake a world within the world
a case of primordial command
we need to follow with our hearts?
The talking spits do not condemn me
they fall upon the glass
and glide to the ground
where they moisten the soil
in a tittering misfit.
And my hands take their measures
they grow big and encompass
the whole of me, in my smallness
they hold the ropes that drive my will.
And they spin, and they spin
my mouth yields like a sack
that gathers every little rubbish
in little nets under the sea
and what is spoken is a bearer
of golden news and hopeful motions
but their tone I cannot shape
it is directed by the ropes.