Jane Mead

The Part—and the Whole of It

Stocking the globe is not
my issue, taking stock
is my issue—and deciding

what to do next. I was
only a speck until the machine
got a hold on me. I'd curl up

and read my accounts. It was
another world—built on dead trees:
On the shores of mirror and veil.

Now—men and women speaking:
Same audit, same flinch.
Same tongue—no visible shore.

Home is another story:
different specks, same machine.
Prescription or sacrifice—

it's hard to say, but always
the same relentless fever
on the tattered wing of day.

Home |  EPR #1 | About EPR


© 2001 Electronic Poetry Review