Dark,
here in the burning wind
this minute staggers on,
immense,
full used and not consumed.
Red day is over, yet its hissing heat
for want of pity does not crack.
What song for summer?
Why, when evening seethes?
A book?
A page?
A liquid avenue! So let me work,
build wild these slender sounds,
with "glass" and "skin" or "secret slice,"
pronounce, say, tell, ask: tongue bouquet!
"How many blossoms can you grow?"
the piper said.
I dream a rare blue tendril
laced about my tower,
red leaves and bells,
a smell like dirt from after morning showers.
More?
If only...
Likely...
Run out?
Through!
I than(k) you people;
Love u,
Sue
(Written using the letters and words given with the book.)
©Susannah Anderson, 1998
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