January 21, 2013

" 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


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