Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Never Left the Ground

That hollow resonant fleshy sound
of the razor climbing my adam's apple.

Meanwhile an aeroplane buzzes in my head.
The plane is a thought of relationships:
trying to take off with great noise,
flight's aborted if ill-built, unready,
if breaks down before leaving the strip.

Far worse is when all seems fine,
flight ill-advised but still at ease when
it's a rickety-experiment-contraption,
which, when reaching a ledge,
plummets to its instant wreck.

The blood on my neck, tiny stopping trickles,
shows me how smooth the razor's ascent.

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