The Face Of My Arms Poem by Robbie Coburn

But the past forms so naturally.
an overrun of trees, thick spirals of branches
assembled in the centre of the paddock

the silence disappears
or like a periphery of abstractions
a mind walks across the body in the farmland's clearing

sits down, the body a landscape torn open
widening into distance

feels dark out here alone
already so full of hysteria

start with my arms
protruding veins of crumbled tissue
deadening the nerve ends

searching up and down
not for an image but an emptiness

the perpetual change stuns
risking yourself
in transfusions of a feeble red line

the point of beginning.