Jun 18
The Words
Prick my fingers and drink
the ink that flows in every vessel,
every capillary. Lock your
secrets in the tides of my breath.
Featherlight, they leech out,
to find their way to fingers
and pen.
Trembling sweat at the end of
my nose and fingertips, salt
to cleanse the page of what
we do.
What do we do?
Poets fumble in the dark,
matchless and uncandled,
seeking stars that might not
wink for them.
Moving lips around broken glass,
searching for the name of God,
in a bloody mouth.
Poetry seeks the word that unmakes
the world.
