Reverberation and resonance
in its utterance and connection
consoles my poor poetry and me.
In attempting to magnetise us,
there is a gravitational pull
where words birl, sounding out,
spinning, sucking meanings in.
You feel you need the skills
of a fucking dissectionist to skin
them down to marrowed usage.
Gleaning some contrasted palette
the keening cry for a dead language
smothered in infancy. paring back,
tearing weathered derma and arthritic flesh,
cracking brittle bone to the marrow of the baby,
there’s a chance, a chance with clarity,
discernment of isness,
to craftily carve a careful truth which states
to be exact in language and understanding
is only possible when you love a word
and are prepared to set it free–
the opposite of what you always do,
with your scalpelpen.
For writing, like love can work against all intuition,
and as I remain all the mes
living in all the conceivable Glasgows,
I find each of us infinitely divisible and yet infinite,
and exactness is Everything.