Thursday, August 29, 2013

Reclaiming The Poem


I  scrape  clams

from their steamed shells,

butterflies that encase

the  soft tissue of lungs


belonging once

To Venus. Sandro

painted her whole.  She was born

a beautiful adult, reacquainting


the  cloistered world

with flesh and bone, unhidden hair

and human lust.


I crave  here, now

breath fished out

from the ancient

theory of tides.


Dead Sea mouth

murmuring -


Songs must have  depth.

Songs must be fluent

and taste of salt. Salt


a  poignant tang  piercing

the tongue and  mind

with sensation. An itch

to imagine more –


what is cast in shadow,

what is left unsung.

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