On the tip of my tongue, the shadow of your incomplete rebellion
a riverine blister ; a city-street broken into brick-brats,
glued together again to fashion a ceramic gnome, its
rickety tree-branches sticking out like cowlicks – uncombed, unshaped.
The remembrances of an unrequited people's republic.
The glint of silver in an abandoned candy-wrapper,
the momentary flickering of a possible blueprint. An oft-repeated
refrain: sometimes bought affection is better than no-affection.
The newspaper fragments blow past a sparrow,
the sparrow does not look up. This catacomb of alleyways
I have dared not enter. A spell, an oft-repeated refrain, but never
repeated out loud. A novel kind of detour
that was bound to result in a sculptural loss of ways.
On the tip of my fingers, the shadow of your lost ways
is a groaning cadaver.
image: Kenny Orr
