January 19, 2012

poem 19 of a poem a day for 2012




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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