These are seeds spat into a red earth.
Words to arrange themselves in neat stacks,
that flit and bloom in birth, wrapping roots
in snappy syntax. Wit sharp as scythes
run across a whetstone tongue,
reaping a gray brain, thoughts like little prayers
to providence, caught in wine-red welts on pink skin:
sin that sinks in. I am stoic and undressed,
silly, sultry, statuesque.
Speaking words, like
Created: Jul 26, 2010Document Media