dust

 

 

 

i wake

the dust of love's village

in my throat

 

                    a cartography of

the unlived

 

                 the past is

a suitable shoelace when a secure belt is required

 

where have i been

 

drunk with the season i ignore

memory

chopped and stacked

in anticipation of the novemebering

                                                     (the illegible

script of rust,

the earth-seep of not-yet words,

stains...

            the tip of a finger

is a tenuous archive


 

i wake

the thorn of love's approach,

insinuated

reciprocity

 

erosion and calm

                           gated,

the heart is

opened-to-be-closed and

closed-to be-opened

and

 

where have i been


 

 

 

from absulation  Mike Schertzer, 1998