Lost poems sing without their withins
Bled poems sing within
Their shunted snouts without their
Clanged nails and
Whispered burials within their willed
Shells, the fires of
Tombs & wombs & tentacled orbits
As close as skin
Lost poems sing without their withins
Bled poems sing within
Their shunted snouts without their
Clanged nails and
Whispered burials within their willed
Shells, the fires of
Tombs & wombs & tentacled orbits
As close as skin
Excellent!
🙂 🙂 thanks.
The fire of tombs and wombs close to the skin of a bleeding poem … come to think of it,
we have nothing else
to bake our tear-wet poems in,
but the secret kiln
of our beginning and ending…
Thanks for sharing 🙂
Thanks for stopping by 🙂
These are profound words. 🙂
Thanks so much 🙂
Wow!!
🙂 🙂
Brilliant!
Thanks 🙂
Great poem — image and concept — richly suggestive without boxing us in too tightly on meaning. Also, just the right length 🙂
Many thanks 🙂