prayer, patterns; poetry
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
“happiness”
or “elephant”
or “shoe.”
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
“happiness”
or “elephant”
or “shoe.”
