In a word it cannot be said, sharp
barbed and cutting edged, a way
in through the narrow wound when
blood eases and amoeba-like mind
gathers around, locks in meanings, it
could have various forms of nuance,
selected in search of a sentence, or
a metaphor, or a simple simile maybe,
even an iambic pentameter or tap
dancing trochee, a problem these days,
words escape, me will not come when
bidden, even when the image is clear
letters will not stand to attention when
sergeant major voice is invoked, still
not on parade, blacking boots, putting
ear plugs in, chatting slang wise, to keep
outsiders on the outside, only those who

know the inner workings, stream of – what
was it again – consciousness, like waking
again in the same day, sentence not yet
complete, in need of an extra breath to
get the last gasp out, what do the French

say, dejas vous, help me please,
to organise these words, to make more
sense mouthing at me as if I am deaf,
when dead it is I am to the world, it
having forgotten it had left me out here
on the blank page, waiting to be brought
back into the warmth, why won’t they
come and take me in, draw the curtains,

close off the final sentence’s clause,
leaving me once more in darkness, peace.