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