new zealand electronic poetry centre
   Capital of  the minimal
J e a n n e   B e r n h a r d t
Your self of lost ground



This field to the other arc, in golden half hoops
under fire, ring torn, we sleep together
best not to speak your self of lost ground
where silently you now follow, keeping the universe
in good humor when even this is taken
arms loosely bound but having the reminder constant
it isn't feeling but wanting feeling
the surge of powers
from this field to the other, back and forth, creating
a double headed I-ness, who really doesn't know
how much is true or chosen? Is happiness here?
Or anywhere in particular. Nor, what is meant by it
or attached to it, separated in a film
where this one witnesses, the other aches
moved & drawn to you.



Jeanne Bernhardt 2004




Last updated 13 July, 2004