[fcgv]

[align=center]A drop of sunshine broadens the ground and shines
like a coal upon the blazing street. And I am enjoying
the last of the wine which tastes as good as the
tree bark shoved into my heart.

The brown of the tearless eyes corrupt the message
swooshing from the lips. I am the growing river

which slides like a storm into the shore. Some
voices cry against the wind, others shout in
support of it.

I am neither for or against anything.

A crucifix dangles from my neck. It was a
gift from the children. They grow up so quickly.
They grow up like weeds

which have flowered despite the thistles and thorns.

They call them wild-flowers. They call them uncontrolled.
They define them in a multitude of labels so that
confrontation can be erased.

I am as defined as the next man, as shapeless in my
exterior as a dripping candle sloshing wax

into a plate.

A letter waits for me in my former mailbox. I understand
it contains the fabric of my thoughts. I cannot imagine
such a mailing, and one defined for me alone.

Stick a needle in the arm. Drive a wedge between
the heart. Life is a process of adjusting, of

correcting attitudes which do not comply
with the flavoured faces of the
people hiding in the dust.

I am forgiving but not forgiven. I am silent
in my loudness which becomes my armour

against the nestled carpet of denial.

CHRIS G. VAILLANCOURT[/align][/B]