" Hush, little baby, don't say a word..."

photo by Artur Listwan © 

the womb full of dolls, waits for the Sun

are we just an assembly

of disassembled parts

shelved ideas and common larks

do we launder, all we fit inside

to need or do we just bleed

staining our certainty of longing

with our desire to find

any bright idea’s articulation

the movements of our limbs

like water and wind

are time’s slow manufacture

of the shapes we take to

we inch along crowds

gravity divines us

structurally adhering

to our base levels

we are root anomalies

the patter of rain

in the Spring

washing the splatter

of mud again

like another bell of noon

peeling white paint

off an old house

we weather another Winter

through a window

wanting

EJR ©