For a time, I think nothing.
Nothing at all.
None of the usual syllables
come to call
like pan dem ic
like au tis m
like wi dow
And so I know nothing
for a time--for a blessed morning,
until unwanted syllables
do their jack in the box
trick again
and more than ever, I want
a church to join or at least
a new plot to work on
so now I muscle all that
into a poem
because poems are homes
for unwanted syllables
like ach ing
like strug gle
but also for the wanted
like o cean
like ba sil
like mer cy.
No comments:
Post a Comment