Curling at the Edges

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.


Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints


so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.


I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,


but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream


of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.

10 thoughts on “Curling at the Edges

    • Like the ink from a fading image; they bleed and run, and in the end, we might be left with naught but silhouettes, or some other beauty of an image altogether…I’m glad it’s beauty you found in that bit of ink!

  1. The old gaels belived the door to the Otherworld, the land of the dead, the next and before life, was always in places where the veil was thin — and this is one of them, just a rolling seam. It has to be death to give us memory, that revivification of the past, bringing back to life across the fleeting interface. We’re thirsty for that water, aren’t we …

    • Ooo, having the work compared to classic Gael spirituality…now that’s a new realm, and one I take as a foremost compliment. But yes, the thirst never does away. We long, we pine, we turn back–we wonder, always wonder.

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