You sport incompletion at an archaeological dig
with Etruscan vases and dental instruments
playing the part with players playing root canals
costumed as shattered visages . . .
The lone and level sands pull out into traffic . . .
You disappear into a labyrinth of words
but manage to recite your way out
with No coward soul is mine by Emily Brontë
whose disregard for convention
makes for an enjoyable trek
across the Yorkshire moors of someone's dreamscape . . .
 |
| Leila Forés |