for Rosamunda


If we didnít hold on to our pain
we would be like angels we would fly away but Iíve cherished the dross clung to my sadness so not to betray the sulky boy who wonít forgive the petty things the lack love and the little disappointments I am a snake consuming myself where the fox gnaws its leg to escape the trap Iíve scratched my wounds to remain in a finite regression
the landscape recedes a mobius strip through oblivionís womb
and if l wasnít so stuck up my own arse Iíd be an angel Iíd fly away