The Broken Fountain Pen Diaster
The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but risen sucking in saving air
while dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black pitch arcs streaking fall staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn between a sofa and yellow armchair there will be an awful task to clean this
now like aJackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set.
After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet
whispers of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time when the
corpse lies in its open casket
under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed.
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(C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020
Thanks be to God
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