how it all began, the slow growth of sweetness.
Nothing is sweeter than knowledge
when you can manipulate the tender and raw
babble of your mind as it sings
logical awareness as if that is all that matters
the limited afternoon spent reading
the back of her hand
the thrumming at the back of the room
as another moth gets lifted to the light
and the smell of its death but not hers
or yours and no that is wrong its a fly not a moth
its a host of wrecked green angels
limting themselves to the better electric inseparable tangents
of time
getting their sweet revenge
as if
ideas are a kind of workshop
to be sent home to their wives without a wage,
or broken upon your tongue.
posted by Cathy @ 11:52 AM
<< Home