page 10

Erosion

Even if I were
to close my eyes and
sit you would be out
there; forging channels

in the darkness, wasting
precious time painting
pretty pictures, of
what might be and
might have been

or scratching stupid itches
picking sounds out of the black, a
faint cat's meow
on the Gompa floor. Incense
rising, rising and breaking
into seperate streams of scent
due to the wind's indifference to
fragile forms. Erosion twisting
tiny threads of thought
until they snap. Leaving

Only the unforged air. And
The settling of the cats.

Harvey L. Molloy