Tiny drops of spit
Litter the air as he speaks,
His words are like stones
That are cast in a pool
And their meanings elude me.

His obvious distinctions
And clear-stated truths
Pass as senseless impressions
Blurred and bound
In a web of their own.

There is only the hum
Of tangled dream
Spun from the threads
He throws in the air
Thrilling the tips of my fingers
But somehow failing my grasp.

Notes and Acknowledgements

“Inattention” was written on 1st February 1990, way back when I was a student.

Original image courtesy melodi2 via stock.xchng.