bundled cusp

man of paper in curl and crumple, folded over under through. creased with bits of news. inks of blue and shadow smudge. he spanks her with a ruler and it sounds like a delivery on the doorstep, sounds like the gambler’s hand slap on a table full of bets.

when paper rests, the leaves come out. from trees after all. from a cut and a fall.  from a buzzing cutting whir of blades comes trusting such soft sheaves. a proper bundle, ribbon-tied, and calling to unknot your tongue.

there in the dark, rustled by night, the sleeping paper man is really keeping breath saved up for his penultimate purpose- the perfect spark to light the verse, to eat the curse of words gone wrong, then sweep the world with fire and turn the sharp edges into songs…


~ by sidereal on December 1, 2010.

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