iiwordTrickles

How is everything a poem? how is everything not a poem   –   the glands, globules, each terrifying nick of skin is a poem how is it not a poem the drift of my knowhow the feel of my soontouch is a poem how is it not a poem I dust off my knife

edge     it is still a poem     I rub my
eyes to a dull glare

it is still a poem how is it how
can
it not
be a poem? – ( i )

Take the henna of the morning rose and blush it with the trickle of an uncouth dawn, an easy forgetting; take the line of the horror &

make

its wily wound its keeper:
the salt
of wonder made
soothe – ( ii )