Poem
Minologos
Nothing takes place. Nothing takes
no place. Becoming remains. Becoming remains and becomes, until becoming fills nothing
to the edge of falling and it no longer moves. No longer stands. It only
flutters, twitches, crackles. Monadic, mumbling monologues. Word-soaked, the
bodies of millenniums drip through the walls, leaving only the mumbling bricks.
He picks one up for himself. The other end is being held.
Nothing has no place.
Yet to think of nothing
is to place oneself and one's mind inside everything.
Posted by: Liz Strauss | December 15, 2007 at 21:52