Saturday, September 19, 2009

Poetry Year September 18

Is Now
As the petticoat
or knight puissant.
Just as extinct as clockwise,
for our time now lacks a face.

Once everywhere, it is nowhere now,
but on the blood of debts incurred.

When else do we write?

Flashing is the sign, and screaming is his handmaiden,
that tells me now
That it is time to wake.

Dreams extinct,
dreary of the tasks,
that will, in turing tides,
be as forgotten,
as disappearing ink.

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