Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009


Four days in a sick-bed;
the tissues mounting up like cloying snow,
missals pitched into anonymity and digit-soup.
Impossibly tiny cogs.

Red flags pop up, electrons;
diorama of affection
that I hoard and gulp to interrupt the aches
and chills and feverish searching for

The every-day is rude and base.
The mundane and terrible;
microscopic horrors and slights that
pull at our wits are
lifted just enough by
tiny mirrors of interaction.
So scaffolded, we soldier on, shoulders
more at right angles with the world.

Four days in a sick-bed;
the ginger cat sneers from the window-sill -
secretly, he knows it isn't flu
but you
that has me ailing.