I only know it’s alchemy,
Turning the everyday metal
Of conversation into gold.
Words lilting in numbers refine
What we say, don’t they, when the base
Stuff of our thoughts is touched with fire?
Month: August 2016
Knives of generational trauma to not eat and not nurture,
So the brown dorm refrigerator and rank smell of past haunts ran the show,
There was a window to exit,
Mumbles of “girls at this school,”
When he in fact was running from himself
They are so often the first to go We can never be sure How it happens A few shatter in a tipping Or when being shipped To Xanadu or San Simeon Some come undone Simply for having been Too delicately fashioned And some just stay Like Venus de Milo’s, who Having found another Way to be incomplete, Takes her place Among the beautiful ruins. Most just slide off At some appointed hour, sensing The whole thing’s going To come apart in the end, anyway. They gather on a beach, One, say, in Normandy, And reminisce of lithic roses, Corrosive salt sea air, Of fresh marbled rolls And, Ah, stone...Read More
In a single counseling session,
They ask you to heal 500 years of genocide,
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