Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Thing

This is not the thing
That exists
Between grains of sand
Silently preventing
Their escape upward
Upward and far away
This is the wedge
The knife
Pressed slowly beside
The lock
For the inevitable twist
Then kick

Now, it is before you
Before you
On the table
Like a fat, untrained cat
With a taste for whiskey
Waiting to pounce on the eye
You’ll eventually
Roll across the floor

Its patience is numbing