Monday, 28 May 2007

The Language-Tree of the Feral Child

I broke the surface, ranged antennae bright,
Limbs of quicksilver eagerly outstretched,
And waited. Just be patient; they will come.
Stay ready to interpret. Surface to depth.
All combinations possible.

This is the time, by rights, they should be here,
Marching the night in rank – I dread I’m deaf
Or broken. I will try harder. I can hear.

I scour for sense, drill deep, crack meaning’s bone,
Fine-comb for syntax strands of howling noise
From dogs and such, or storms from void to void.

I failed my sole task, through no fault of my own,
Waiting for you, as my bright awakening morn
Darkened to baffled horror.

David Ruaune


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