Winter wheat and a spill keyed heart
what do words do
in the foundries
of our darks
do they wait for us
and our tongues to lead
do they silver the handles
do they wade into how
sweet our desires
for more can be
do they eat
their way
to daylight
through hair,skin,
flesh,blood,and bone
the tone of wail nears
what an octave breath
fold-mirrors in our rejoices
in our choices to know
when the blade
is a surgical song's door
or a weapon of what
we've always longed for
in the curls,knees to chests,
sideways,at rest
like seeds in the Winter
the wants,the husks,
the hulls,the cuts
we harvest and cask
into our borders
into our wines
of butterflies
and razors
too sharp for soft birth
to feel anything
but warmth
too soft for sharp birth
to see anything
but a dark ocean begin
pulling the tides back in
bleeding all our limps
inside these bottles
for angels to find
and sell with imps
to the tourists here
who ride wishes home
into poems again
EJR (c)
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