Poem in imitation of Roger Finch
It is in the dark that I find the difference
between myself, the green ink user, biro penner,
and you, who blues out thoughts in fountains, scored wet
between our thighs and scrawled on our hot backs.
Nibbed up into us the words, and their oppositions,
inter-loop: some dry and some bleeding out;
Looped sighs over the kaggy handed words.
Looped sighs bind our opposing minds
into composing flesh and sweat. In the dark
our difference condenses, smudged under the finger
tips and the mouth, and the cry words and the language
of a sobbing groin. It is in the moment, repeated, that
our sentences find one another, and we are the same
writer, with different diction. Later I scratch out your
scent, verdant, in words such as melting snow,
silver polish and moss. And the sound is mine.