ForkWord
Poems by Inchiki
Nichols Gorge Wetwang
what is a number?
just a little indivisible piece of nothing wrapped around on itself
the number plane
like a cave sodden field
a worn face
of dolines cut with
spilled acid
only a sort of inertia
prevails against these accidents
stretch marks in my text
record connecting white neurons
like drops advancing down a pane
the opium flower in my mind meadow
I smell a gag being removed -
take a quick breath between suffocating words -
