Poetry in Vitro - Vol 4, No. 1

Just Suppose

That words have lost their cognitive significance.
That what is spoken registers
as the burble of roiling waters.
That what is written appears a cross-
hatching background to the visual stimuli
that scrapes the retinal dreams of social upheaval.

I have scored silence on three fronts

I have spilt principal on guilty pleasures.

I have built means out of jelly-bean sprigs.

Scream that lofty scream,
but leave my welcome mat unturned

Leave this place – my place – my private place.
I have run out of things to say.


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