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
-
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Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 
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 🙂