Finding ways between magical places
my dark pony is the penumbra of challenge
where snowflakes do not take shape.
My unmapping is midnight travelling the stars
undoing compass points of restless soul;
mountains run down, trees scarper,
sleek furred otters of brooks roam free.

In this wilderness the speed of thought
cannot catch up with its abduction
undoing names in a language
which twists and spits from my tongue
to be read obtusely by torchlight
in a tent flapping with future’s fear,
words catching in wind immolated
on hawthorn bleeding ink for darkness
which makes the meaning of pain clear.

Between you and my god this stone
and my typewriter do not exist.
The rushing in your ear is the hurricane
of my apprenticeship to him
dissolving sculptured souls into
the not-world’s belonging; a vast happiness
disarming as his smile and winter’s mildness.


4 thoughts on “Unmapping

  1. The intensity of this brought me back to its beginning more than once to be held by it again and your experience of “the not-world’s belonging”.

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