If she keeps notsaying the thing
is that as good as sayingit, she wandered.
Hands, fluent in silence. The awning
kept an awful countenance,
contemptuous above the concrete.
Broken bricks in forlorn walls
toothed the street-mouth, little
sore-dust asphalt sharks that dart
beneath the tenements. And who
amongst us was betrothed
to the truth, she bartered. Poetry
was the way she waited forever
outside the closed door. If you listen
closely, every name is called
except for hers. Now, do you have
what you came for, have you
something red, shining, unjust
to write about?
(another free-write poem fragment by me, and artwork by the wonderful Henrik Aarrestad Uldalen)