Poetry

india (iii)

I put my head under water and
my hair is like bleeding ink spreading
out around
my swirling head;
the blue and the orange lights,
the absolute stillness of my puffed cheeks.
A plane flies and
lands on my back crashing into
my head.

I can hear nothing and feel less.
I feel my chest.
It does not contract.
I feel my own emancipation
from thought
and pull
my legs to my chest,
fetal and somehow running.

I do not think of you here,
but only my senses and what touches me,
what I see, my eyelashes, my lips,
my mistaken hope that when
I come up for air, I’ll know
that you love me and that I
have a home to return to.

Kevin Crispin

What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it’s my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It’s certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.


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