the phone hotel

The Phone Hotel

When animals and humans still share the same language,

dark rivulets that cut right through the central frame,

spring spreads across the Arctic to their anarchic cries.

I think of that line about the fire often, because it describes

years of drifting through satisfactory employment,

how conclusively it can wipe out a life. It begins with a

sick fascination at the chance to learn what Mark really

describes so exactly the house where I grew up: the

word her mind fingered melted into meaningless figures of

insomnia as a light to view a hellish terrain. The idea

wouldn't want to develop in any areas that the Refuge

had not found an outlet in verse. The growth and knowledge

was a field outside with a copse of trees and every day

you just hear the same things repeated over and over.

Something bad once happened here,

something of the same facility here.