I am the black line beside each vein,
Leisurely, luxurious, deep as an ocean,
Thinner than cotton.
I hang from horizons
Behind breeze teased underwear,
Flat and fluttering upon the land.
Or curl up beside bones,
Orchestrating my growth to violins
Within the scaffolding.
I tighten the skin drum,
Lie thick in napkins,
Bleed all corners
Of simple symmetry. I am
Neither fillet nor feather,
Though I am that to which I cling.
Am a cavernous ghost
In a crevice, impossible to fill.
Emptiness is my fuel
In the cold ash of ovens,
In a duct not a tear,
Too small for forensic.
Am beneath all, invisible,
Until lifted from the soil,
Like stories, like holes.
I hog fridges and kilns,
Make a home of a scream
And am paint's illusion.
I am essential.
Rupert Mallin
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