Friday, 24 February 2012

A poet,

 lost in words, sits on a train’s
deluded rails that seem to converge
like wrinkles on his hands and face
 - before and back - through time and space.

Avoiding headlines
but chasing a hunt
for every letter
 - like sperm - in word - and sound.

Riding rails,
narrow minded,
cliché trip
up a track:

wondering and gazing,
secretly alive

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