by Joe Blades © 2006.
back in the stone hole
the humidity limps me
like the damp facecloth
i cannot have in here
might choke on that
might tear it into strips
as a tool in my escape
through hammered square bars
of wrought iron painted black
stone walls not going anywhere
as redcoats march outside
with bagpipes and drums
i don’t know if it’s safe
to type this on paper
or if in the hole i should
commit to memory only
the words of my songs
sing them inside
my stressed head
not even mouthing
them breathless air
nothing to do but wait
sit here weakened
pace and look outside
think think think
what to do where i’m
no potter with slip
brushed on clay vessels
words rise and fill
space complete with
sounds from the past
embedded in the walls
(pottery on display by Ursula Sommerer).T: Quod nos non necat, etiam maxime laedit
loc: FAA casemate
temp: 26 C
sound: Tom Waits The Best of Tom waits
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