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