Friday 30 November 2012

#55 - Whereas The Ground

flexed like a trampoline skin,
it gave like a memory, accepting hand prints
that crosshatched, that built into constellations;

it promised, its fingers crossed,
and when it shook
we lay gobsmacked, at last alive;

is a floor untamed,
is a pitch in the raw,
take-as-you-find me, liminal, sly;

followed each person as they left the path,
rising to catch their boots,
supporting, not steering.

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