To a Poem

Where do you come from

in your tatty scribbled skin

whisper on the wind

fistful of pyrites

pig-iron of my soul

accretion of the dead ends

a blind man’s fingers met.

An untuned friend

dancing arabesques through the dark

I map your shadow

transcribe your steps

shred your disguises

with my crossings out.

Net wriggler

swarm of eels

combed out of silence

stained plaited stabilised

prisoner of a page

a lost flock hefted

one by one

through the nib of a pen.

For a moment then

I capture the four winds in a jar

the priceless effervescence

of a brand new star.

No papal smoke appears.

Just inky finger ends.