on the brink of being
 
I seek out my poems as if I’m a photographer of landscapes not quite formed, setting my lens to an empty meadow anticipating the arrival of glorious birds, full of song, feathers sparkling like fire opals. Yet time and again in the dark room of my heart it’s not those magnificent birds that appear, but instead it’s the worms, held firmly in their beaks, on the brink of being devoured.


 

Published in ABRAXIS