Words slide out of themselves—
snake into long field grass.
They leave a trail we barely see—
the sloughed skin becoming the landscape.
How a word takes wing from itself,
and becomes its object.
How it glides out of reach—
sly bird accustomed to camouflage.
We no longer see the cup of cup,
the river of river,
the sky of sky,
until we are lost inside it,
until it’s lost again—
a mist, a cloud—
in azure, cataract, tankard.
About the author:
David Mohan is based in Dublin, Ireland, and received a PhD in English literature from Trinity College. He has been published in Stirring, New World Writing, Contrary, elimae, and The Chattahoochee Review. In 2012 he won the Cafe Writers’ International Poetry Competition. He has been shortlisted in The Bridport Prize and nominated for The Pushcart Prize.