from Dream Logic

rob mclennan

014 : “The Pipers”

They stand, with their backs. A row of tartan, sentries. In which ordered, and pristine. Pure, mental experience. Abrupt, rumbling. They hold a ridge, a reed. To work the vein of words. To their lips. To the lines above. Such truth, to this phrase. Such skin. A low rumbling fact. A sentence, plausible. Screech. This hard passing, undertow. This stretch of the hand. This pure sound, strained. This glossary of bees.