The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
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 up again sucking in saving air and spread on
dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black arcs streaking falling staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn together between a sofa and yellow wing- chair on the gray carpet there will be an awful task to clean this now became a Jackson 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 feel of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time as when the casket sits in the room for a wake under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers and phrases of grief
by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy Into the 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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