In the tiny truths behind the hidden
words and blood streaked cheeks, you
drink ozone in deep layers. I will count
all my sins and light the candles in a row.
On the pillow of moon, night slept in half-slumber.
I tendered an apology
and wrote a new poem. It was not a rebuke
of stars.
This was my ad lib before the sun rise
and roses opening the blood conversations
with the grand stings. The wrapped hunger
starts wailing.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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