by Roland Jooris
~
It is the angular
that compels the tongue,
language
squeezed
in its own rattling
speech which,
swallowed as dissent
and gasping with impotence
digs
into the earth
it is the ineffable
defenceless defiance
the crusty moss
of withered light
the air smelling of
slowness and of
soil
of irredeemable
time, the cracks
in this merciless
waiting: struck dumb, purified
in each others’ reserve.
