Gravity for Letters

What passes for patience
is a chessboard click of rooks
prim smiles with unlifted eyes
while tides of bile rise up:
the player’s lava. Boiled rock
clots up your sluices
if it doesn’t find an aperture
a slit in underwater earth
from which a stream of gas escapes
as bubbles, hot enough for crabs
or – better yet – a brazen hole
from which to rain down smoking
boulders over unsuspecting towns
with a belch of ill-digested
feeling. My cascades of ash and pumice,
are directed into hollow caverns
carved by quills
where they tumble on feet and heads
serifs and dots hot off the press
like iron brands of olden days
to stamp the blank white
paper landscape.
Here there’s no need for sweet ‘pleases’
and ‘thankyous’, underbrimming with
cantankerous intents
only a playground for words to skitter in
swing off branches, crash and crumble
knock each other senseless
til some sense emerges, breathless,
floating out of its own crushed importance
laughing, light-headed and happy
for the loss of its gross weight.
Gravity is overrated when
you are a letter.

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