Sunday, 12 December 2010


The clock ticks
and every five minutes
a finger separates this page
from the next,
sweeps down the new words to be read
and smoothes them
into pages past tense.
Gazing through the letters,
a pallet knife
smears gold across the ocean.
a breaking wave
disturbs a gull
and betrays the silence.

I've read every word,
without understanding
and read their shape,
their sound,
and listened to the turning page
against the passing seconds.

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