Wednesday, September 14, 2005


Everything her society might have attained
was written on her body. From the nape
to the buttocks, from the forelock
to the thigh, she lay down,
thinking warmly of that golden age,
a time of arabesques and scrolls,
the masks of past remains.

Hieroglyphics without meaning stop
wherever they attain their own significance,
appeals to go on being interpreted.
They are maps where there are no roads.
Mysteries that haunt us, or disappear
as she pulls on her clothes.


Anonymous said...

great thoughtful piece. love it! will visit your blog more often.

Jonathan Wonham said...