Words have mapped tomorrow.
If they were things
they’d be stainless steel clothespins
anchoring soaring laundry
to a washing line
holding pining linen sheets
in predetermined formation:
metal synchronicity
The word has dripped into a glass of water
and billowed to the bottom
slowly diffusing new colour
a dreamlike path
Today a machete man has been sent ahead
to hack out a path for you
fuelled by yesterday’s words
you whispered into earth
Thursday you forgot this power
so on Friday you were hemmed in
not remembering that tomorrow will unravel
according to what you spoke
and that the sword
lies buried in the softness
of your mouth.
