George Tysh: WORK/1

ignorance

resting, on the spot
(she had never heard of Judas)
the place known by
its emptiness, temperature
and fallen trees;
grey shreds of
trunk, the bark
under thumb
(but she wanted him)
residence
breathes
among the pale chips of tree–
dark soil
enters, at
the base
through slits in my side
(she told me
she never heard; she
couldn’t remember
me) and me, seated,
a quiet word
on the open section;
circles, to, millions of
them, I explain my name;
they group their
weight, towards an end
– that clean, dry
slow cracking – towards
a history of me.
(she never heard it)
5/65

carefully

she looks in-
to my mouth, for
the sky, the blackness
of sound, of what
she talks for; the
light, the weight of
her tongue,
light; for light
a single match
(its cover
gone, rises
the flame
moved by breath)
the flame
twists
one hair, taken
from my mouth
near-
curled
and dry.

I
look at it;
dried on my face
is her smell –
she looks in-
to my mouth, for
the sky, the blackness
of sound; she is
in my mouth,
holding her breath.
5/65