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May 2017
Primary to pastel
to lights, darks

to static and noise
to nothing.

The old man ice-axes
memory mountain.

Some echo, some glimpse
of all he's lost

is all he seeks.
But all there is

in unpictured void,
scuttling, spidering

denying the light -
a parasite alphabet

barring windows
spinning webs -

the words for which
he once was famous

******* the juice from
all they ever meant.

While lesser spectres
span the spectrum

dreams and photons
undrowned in ink.
Alan McClure
Written by
Alan McClure
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