"Edges"

I skated the edges,

none of which

were edges,

of course.

I excised embarrassed shapes

even the anointed

couldn't name.

Burnt paper tracings of memory,

and bleached negatives

were run through a fevered wash

and became slippery

finger textures,

and knowingness

became a tongue.

Unconstant lines were older than Ur

and dabs of nervous skipping

stared desperately

at each other.

Would hungry birds peck

at this trickery,

so real,

so real that

small children would point,

and try all their wording?

Always a re-line,

and,

always a re-see,

my blurry eyes squinting

at the jigsawns of life

and

the nacre of

layered limbs.

t. wahl -2010