The word-seeds that seed our sleepless nights
with consonants and vowels, left alone unsyntaxed
never hear the light of day‑
unfurl and stretch in banks of clouds
or along long streams before they disappear
into sentences never spoken.
I lie as silent as a snake and never speak another cloud,
like St.Vincent-Millay’s candle burning both ends,
stretch and dissolve into liquid wax, all
inclinations from the depth’s images remain unlit.
There is a hole in the wall of the city-scape
where I can enter without pick-axe or hands,
Anaconda gliding through the scene,
born anew, offset between vertebrae.
It has followed from my childhood home,
the very same one I first came upon
frozen beneath an ice age in our yard.
It recycles itself, beginningless, along a ledge
cut like a channel into the stone. Thoughts stream
like LED’s in magnificent sentences, flow
beyond all speed, never captured−
then explosive and rampant along the road.
I wake spell bound in second skin, in a surge
of sheathing memory that snakes me end to end,
so as not to remember what has always been—
exhilarating silence in Anaconda.