poem 171 of a poem a day for 2012

what the tanyards say

we’re wearing the screaming and hissing

heavy kissing a lean into all

who could smell them walking near

boiling what we peel to soften our ability

not to smile and be worn

this place takes bodies

strips life from them  

strips purpose in order

to reassign meaning with design

this is why Venus spit burst sin

when She escaped from

these vast vats of did in

what of Her crossing the Sun

telling Spring She’s done

and that Summer is to run

Her fingers in slow fat vines

flat lining the lulls before any storms

can gather a trample focus of hearts

that patter like rain with what

and why spilling an insistence

to be felt in knelt gravity’s dug knees

and pleas are what we roll in the clover for

crept along the broken concrete

walking tomorrow’s hurtled time

we search for new words that can be cut

that can be sewn and shaped into bones

into garments of every mine in our souls

pine pollen sits silted

in the arrays of dew’s last dance

before the Sun had the chance

to slow motion to last in painted light

as every eye needs limbs to crawl blind

for awhile here

in the lush forests of pre-occupation

distraction and magnets weight veins

blood takes iron from the wade forge

and pours itself willingly in the tides

each thirsty reach for shore

tells a little different story of how

we came to be each held breath wishing

to find a hand in dreams again

stirring ever stirring as if orbits

were the ghost echoes of what used to be

as any now can only be felt

as a decoration to be worn

when we begin to walk

to the mountains to find a cliff

to dive from perspective

we know how eager

our rivers tongue-carve words

from sighs and exhales

mineral rich valleys

deep curl with ancient truths

in the rich loam

catching seeds

in every turn of the seasons

we plant in this skin

that knows the wind

helps us all remember

the only thing we ever have

to carry to permanence

is our desire for more  

EJR ©