The morning starts like an incision.
Beneath her eyes, ribbed like
cockle shells, is a
cackling chattering a clamouring
that imprints some briny scene,
a local deposition
from the night before.
Except now the projection
allows no teasing-out of meaning.
The pattern condensed on her field of vision
cannot be traced -
never at rest,
the particles vibrate
in vicious autonomy. She is still unsure
whether she is seeing spots
or hearing thoughts made manifest.
The morning has suggested itself fully,
serrated on the edge of the curtain.
Her effusion has no such boundary.
She is locked in the cusp
between the prickling night
and today's deadening life.
In any case, the reality or unreality
of her vision - if you can call it that -
is of little import. Frothed forth
are a thousand memories,
already growing painful,
like pearls, the minute before
their genesis.
Beneath her eyes, ribbed like
cockle shells, is a
cackling chattering a clamouring
that imprints some briny scene,
a local deposition
from the night before.
Except now the projection
allows no teasing-out of meaning.
The pattern condensed on her field of vision
cannot be traced -
never at rest,
the particles vibrate
in vicious autonomy. She is still unsure
whether she is seeing spots
or hearing thoughts made manifest.
The morning has suggested itself fully,
serrated on the edge of the curtain.
Her effusion has no such boundary.
She is locked in the cusp
between the prickling night
and today's deadening life.
In any case, the reality or unreality
of her vision - if you can call it that -
is of little import. Frothed forth
are a thousand memories,
already growing painful,
like pearls, the minute before
their genesis.