When the heart
with alarm calls to
trees of antiquity
to be near,
this world, the purgatory
of the mouse-click,
stares back
and slams the door.
As words say, or
a wired stray is
the sound in my eyes.
Pacing in place,
hands in pockets,
caught blushing.
Poem: Marie Craven, 15 September 2017
An erasure poem, selecting words from writing by Nigel Wells
Photo: Benjamin Balazs, Unsplash
