The Artist’s Poem

In my dreams, there is silence,
not that conscious switch-off
for the rare library visits,
missed out, not muting devices,

no, not that easy click,
but another longer lull,
down the line of a pen:
a stalker’s murderous silence,

that of me, the fasted hunter,
treading, tarried, slowed over
kindling’s dry threats to snap:
in my sleep – that silence of captures.


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