The Work of My Words

Ten deep breathes,

and let the words

do all the work,

let this chaos be my

own,

let that flesh be 

known to me.

Let that idea sour

in our skies

and our speech.

Let each and every 

one.

Our wishes and prayers

are pointless,

no one hears them except

the well and the priest.

And there is nothing

natural

in poetry.

2/21/12

 

Advertisements