I once preferred a keen and perfect
cutting edge, a right-angled sheet trimmed neat
with borders that might snick an errant
fingertip. I later played it safer, seeking
corners that were curved or bevel, the better
to deflect attack, embraces and attention.
My predilection now is for the deckled
indents of a homemade page, fibre-flecked
and textured like a slept-in bed dented
from the press of its residents, a set
of lovers well fitted to each other’s
folding flaws, growing more attached each week
as they fade and sag and grey together.
(Source: zachariahwells.com)
• poetry • Zachariah Wells • link •