Always the writing writhes
to be born and flower,
pushing up through a dark
ceiling of earth.
Always it pounds in my blood
wanting to break on you,
on the reef of your hard body,
explosive as tides crashing.
The writing is rhythms that swell
and will not be gainsaid.
It pushes, burrows, surges, leaps.
Hammers and shrieks. Weeps. Begs.
After the blind climax, the ebb
has the panting of breath,
a giant wave receding.
I am its point of calm.
First published The Nonsense of Living anthology by The Aardvarkers
In Secret Leopard (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005) available from Amazon or through www.nissen-wade.com