THE DRY PAPER

The dry paper, the plain white, dry paper.

And to write I must stain.

With my tears and my blood,

The dry paper.

I take a knife and open a vein,

And the blood runs onto the dry paper.

I scrawl with my finger but wait.

I’ve lost it and I start again.

I take a sharper knife and I try a second vein,

And again I scrawl, across the dry paper.

And I write until the blood is dry.

Oh yes, it’s so easy to write.

With dry blood, on dry paper,

From a dry vein.

First published in Wilson P.  (Ed.) (1993) Poetry Now regional anthologies: Central.  Poetry Now of Peterborough.