ORB

ORB

you’ve brained me beyond and what not, lying here in a grasp

of retirement and rich pain thrust of daggers out there, you getting lucky and

not so, in this lists of branchless sits and meander dry like

my castle overturned and raped this little shadowy thing on my forehead,

while the rest of the world lies behind and circumference, falling into ones

own tear, ones own tear

and shifting between nightmare reconstitutes this essence

 in see-like saw.

Nicolee Ferris

Tuesday, 29 August 2000