Water to Run Along

Deep South v.3. n.1. (Autumn 1997)

This is where the truth, as a concept, as a word,
makes my skin crawl green. Tyres on
wet road. Tired in a wet pool. Trapped in a single moment of
endless repetition, mime inside
mime upon stage
outside time.

There is a face in behind the
mirror different to anything I have ever seen,
eye sockets to run fingers across,
bridge to run along, and thoughts
wondered, yet still no real synthesis to
preach of; no love to speak of. No bridge to
run along. No bridge.

Some say this shower is the last,
and the water subsiding. Some say there is a suspension
bridge above the flow. Some say it is already under water.
Some say, I say,
it is all water.
All of it.