Patricia Sykes



Deep (paraphrase of) Play

After a passage from Diane Ackernman’s Deep play


Patricia Sykes


The night a keyhole, the mind stepping through into distance.

From out of the dark riffs iceberg gardens,

filling the page, their strange white love


their perfumeless grip play deep


Writing “nature” is not the it of it

the i/I of her scribing hand not an arctic butterfly

feeding on a rapture she has no name for


play deeper


beyond the shining words, beyond and farther

than vocals abeyant in rock,

amber, permafrost


play deepest


among the nervy nerved instinctive self.

The foot on its throat is centuries, the weight

a ball and chain. Till the ground


that feeds the worm else dispassion builds,

annuls. The closest relative of nothing

is nothingplay deep









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