The biro is a sharp
Steel strip of metal,
Skating down my face.
It rips a white strained burrow
Across the hollow rockpools,
Zipping at 90 degrees
Around and around the
Wall of Death with its curves
And waxy spaces. Skims briefly
Across the thin quivering volcano
That hides a drum, and three tiny bones.
And then down the skin mountain
From the Widow's Peak
With a ski jump to the Cupid's Bow
And along the soft ground,
Jumping over the black and rounded chasm
(White rocks sweetly glinting,
Down, inside). To land on a
Jutting, rocky outcrop, a cliff edge.
A brush with surfacelessness and air.
Up and along pointed bone
To end in dense forest, rocks,
And brown spiked trunks.
We are in blue Bic mapped country.
The lines join me together.