30 August 07
Bound
The white-coated man
threads a needle
— black silk —
and trusses a quadrant
neat and tight, like a turkey.
I feel only dark shadows,
the thread on my lip,
to and fro, fro and to.
Cranberry hypnosis,
Narcotics: then sleep.
I truss up white pages
with cranberry linen
black words of pain,
fear, love, mangled awe.
I tug, with no mercy, through
voids I have drilled,
make a suture-knot,
Tie off. Conceal the ends.
A brilliant shroud
on a journey, beyond.
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Ha! Great analogy.
Wonderful.
(o)(!)(!)
(o)