A Fragment, with Mask and Horn
- after a drawing by Cheryl Dodds
There were obsessions. Mine and yours.
Yours was brush or pencil or camera,
with swirls of black and grey on walls of white.
No time for a splash of color.
A word, a space, a voice.
of Borges - knowing a truth, with its grinding bent
on horizons of doing and undoing, but no map
for charting there to here.
in its hard grooves, looks on, while the dancer wakes
the primal need of take on take, in a twist of brass
and spit, in a dream of flesh with its poundings of
sweat, of desire, in a breath that's more than wild.
notes on the process