Poetry / 10 Minutes

10 Minutes
 

might be all we have,
the mystery of this abandoned
landscape &
sleep sliding into
your skin

the shadows, then
and the broken window, rotten
window case splintered
you

cut yourself and the floor
your curled hair filled with white
dust
your sweater ruined on the
damp concrete

break this chain
of myself, this twining
rope of death;

bring the word, the
thought soaring in
the mind’s dark
licking at the base of the
mind in the shuddering
moment

. . . .

Eric Quinn
–2/05, 11/09

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