Friday 22 November 2013

#16 - We Sit Starving Amidst Our Gold

Each nugget has its special topography;
we map it with our phrenologist's fingers,
the lump rotating in our palms. Ah -
a slant towards criminality.
This fellow has the bulbous tumours
of madness in childhood.
Sometimes, the contours converge
on a hollow, like a bunker
or a dead lake. I let the pad of my ring finger
rest there, then I cast the rock aside,
and take the next from the heap.

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