John Savoie



Thrum in spine, thrust in core,
hands crawling with emptiness,
lizard flick twitching in tongue—

none of this brings you any closer,
your palpable soul,
your body sublime

shrunk to whispers
from the voice
I no longer dare to trust.

The silver cord is cut
and I am drifting
into that black beautiful despair

where nothing touches or is touched,
the center of that circle from which
all things ripple away, small, far, gone.

To think is to shout
yet every cry
shrivels in rarefied air.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s