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Feb 272010
 

by Mel C. Thompson
 

We dash headlong
into the world-gap
where each self twists
inside-out, wringing
its limbs, trying
to scratch the solid
crust, mantle or sea-bed
to conclusively speak
outside the surreal
box of shrugged
shoulders and nihilistic
doubt; and that knot
can be untied if,
by grace, a self
should emerge as rice
paper or parchment
with ink pen poised
above it the instant
before a character is
written, and if, in that
moment of trust,
the seeker and the writer
throw themselves into
the flame, become the flame,
become the ash, become
the wind blowing the ash.