Wednesday, October 10, 2012

On Writing

Small words lick us
Salty sweet on opened skin
The fat underneath
Trimmed to just shavings

Pens and needles cut and stitch
Until we are perfect
Beautiful, in fact
With our insides out

Our insides outed and aching
Bone from the closet floor,
Its marrow coveting skin
Its perception

Pulp of our hearts
Pushing veins
Until there is light

Thin sheets of light
For us to stand on
For us to rest our hearts on
Thin sheets of light

Into which we climb
Into which we
Wrap ourselves
Like blankets

Like childhood
And its breasts
Full of milk
And warm honey

The warm thighs
Of coming to age
In back seats
In back rooms

That are soon too dark
And damp
Bricks in a basement
Cinder stained through

Thin sheets of skin
Stained fingers black
Like leaded hearts
And welded mouths

Waiting for thin light
For paper thin feelings
For microphones
And their cheap voices

Filling tiny closets
Dark corners
Whiskey glass bottoms
And sailed ships

Filling lines
With circles
And the spaces
Wrapped inside of them

Thin lines
Of thinning love
On thinning paper
On shaky ground

Deserted mouths
And their thinning veils
Have worn me thin
On writing

Linked to dverse open link night


  1. So true of writing. Nicely written with some very strong imagery.

  2. Love the metaphors you've conjured up in this, D.C.

  3. Thank you so much! I am sorry I did not see these comments until now. I really appreciate you stopping by and reading.