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Sieving

None may enter this page
but from the faltering sieve
that is my brain
 
Grey to white;
White space curled apart
by these spider italics.
 
Art is part of it.
The art of the hourglass
where the sieve is a singleton hole.
And I can turn one away from
the other, but always:
The sand blisters down ---
 
Granular words stream on
until the container ends.
Then we recycle communication
 
from our brain.
Registering a different sieve hole
from the same place to here;
A different but similar page.
 
I let my sieve silt-sift,
hoping not for spaghetti, but gold.

- Simon Huggins, 31st March 2003