You casual letter m. You bit of news,
    We want to have our fingers smudged with you,
    To flip and press them into that white page,
    That high-borne cloud. We finger-paint, contain
    The soul of flight in split parabolas,
    We flip the morning news into a wind
    Of time on time on time, in that fast stain
    Perceiving something of your daily fuss,
    Your blustering; perhaps even that keen
    Above the sea rocks, that remote lament.
    You stimulate us, like some failed machine
    Collapsing, some obscure accident,
    And we reel through the paper, scan the sea.
    We want your danger. Your strange tragedies.

Copyright © Alice Bell, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.