High Top Trainer
They are woven out of the manes of horses
Horsehair in weft, cotton in warp and combined with artificial leather
My paper life is stretched out to catch the rain
stories written are birds navigating the wind
They cluster and disperse attempting movement
in shadows and letters blowing apart
At once I have a solid sentence clearly written
a strong line upon which are claws.
Then as feathers in letters are blown apart
words reassembled to keep on meaning
The letters are as sinking sands
not holding but letting go my hands.
If I had a chisel I would carve expressions into rock
scissors rock paper
Oddly it is in being blown apart that I am rooted
always silken and shifting on these veils
In these doldrums I sit and wait and raise a life
with one eye hoping for pregnant sails
Just filled for once and forever more
bending towards a potential shore.
Patrick O’Neill November 7th 2017