Sunday, January 13, 2019


The Journey Inward (Body Time No More)

From that which refuses my moth, I replace my hands.

From that which instigates the winter storms of my eyes, I open

      an ear.

On the pillow, a spot of snail blood, spittle of the vanish auk.

Where my left ear had lain in the moist warm, all noise of the world

      was muffled.

Draw a bath of lightly caressed playing cards.

Ask me for the king of clubs, the jack of night sweats.

There is a place in my heart even I have not touched with


Try if you must, but know that—in extreme quiet—you too might

      get quashed.

A divide opens up along the shelf of Antarctic ice.

On one side of the deck, it is cold. On the other, cold.

I do not speak any longer in ice moths or in irreparable twos.

I will not solve the dichotomy of this winged pain, even with an

      obstinate mouth.

Nor will I salve my own blue-bolstered bruise with dream talk and


I am not talking time any longer but a continental drift of ice

      diamonds, devoid of the clutch of a kind hand or mouth.


George Kalamaras
That Moment of Wept
SurVision Books (Ireland)