(abyssal)
From the hinge of land
toward the numbered edge
a blue ignition;
not flame –
pressure-light,
crushing inward
Steel without source.
A hollow of anger
opening like trench-depth
Shame-basins
beyond the last public marker
Consciousness foundered
among pallor-signals,
ear-shell fossils
whispering static
Blind matter-feelings
drifting in thing-reefs,
their slow toxins
tiding outward
through the Dales of Doris.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-27 at 16:35
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The Dales of Doris (III)
From the hinge of land
toward the numbered edge
a blue ignition;
not flame –
pressure-light,
crushing inward
Steel without source.
A hollow of anger
opening like trench-depth
Shame-basins
beyond the last public marker
Consciousness foundered
among pallor-signals,
ear-shell fossils
whispering static
Blind matter-feelings
drifting in thing-reefs,
their slow toxins
tiding outward
through the Dales of Doris.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-27 at 16:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
