James Robertson
The Words (1)
| Words are stretched out by the score All along the scoop of the phone wires. A poet parks her car beneath them, Is puzzled by their numbers, listens For a moment to their small insistences. Unknown to her, more and bigger words are massing Just over the hill. They threaten something, Soon they will rise and billow Into a single devastating multiplanestrike. Or, clouds of them will burst like pillows Down the lum when she expects them least. Or, a single screeching word will strike her head Or chap her door at night, and then drop dead. Soon there will be nothing to see but words Filling the rubbed-out sky, the land will be covered With their throaty ruffling, and the gaps That dance between them will be white paths Leading to nowhere. ... |