I listen for your voice in the contorted brittle bones of the night illuminated by ages of wrinkled moon filtering through cloudy skin the face sputtering like a cotton wick in an emptying lamp spouting fumes of longings belongings percolating through the ether like flour shaken through a sieve kneaded into tensile dough. And each day arrives and departs fluttering like clouds of butterflies in long lost gardens of bloom. Every clump of raw earth like scarred stranded driftwood. And I suspended on the shredded stump of a nebulous umbilical cord winding through the words I conjure and strew through mile upon mile of silences. Of time rambling like the nomadic peregrinations of multihued gypsy tribes wandering across boundaries of memories. One day they are there setting up camp their cooking fires bubbling and steaming their naked children laughing and screaming. The next day they have disappeared without a trace only a few smouldering fires regurgitating ghosts of shadows. The sands slip through the narrow arteries of unmentioned unspoken ties where seas of heartbeats drown the shores. Stranded in this flimsy boat I row with mighty strokes only to feel the strong tug of invisible tethers that bind me to the shore. A shore filled with shattered shacks bloated bodies drowned in their sleep a cemented floor bereft of its walls and windows. The coastline being torn apart by acres of aching saltwater lagoons. Yet I listen for your voice.
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