Words
Our words pile up
like earth strata,
crushing each other to emerge
later as veins of rust
or diamonds.
Our words cover wounds
like blood-crusted gauze,
cooing love when they mean hate,
spewing hate when they mean love.
Your Word is a bird flying against
the screen of my foolishness,
its only way in, through
the press of the screen,
It bloodies itself,
reduces itself
to shards of bone, fleshy pulp,
but it will get to me, so great the love,
while I, dozing
by the window, watch,
indifferent to the wire cutters
slipping from my hand.
Our words pile up
like earth strata,
crushing each other to emerge
later as veins of rust
or diamonds.
Our words cover wounds
like blood-crusted gauze,
cooing love when they mean hate,
spewing hate when they mean love.
Your Word is a bird flying against
the screen of my foolishness,
its only way in, through
the press of the screen,
It bloodies itself,
reduces itself
to shards of bone, fleshy pulp,
but it will get to me, so great the love,
while I, dozing
by the window, watch,
indifferent to the wire cutters
slipping from my hand.