Paper Cut

We bring heat, beat arrows
and thorns, raise our points,
bright darts, and run-on sentences.
We need practice in delay,
suffer the knot in our tongues
as if we could stuff scale
and ink in throat, fill the well
with sparkle and weight,
things we want to say
but gather in our heads
for later. Let’s call it listening,
not focused on buckle in jaw,
split skin seams, the color of horizon.
It’s hard for us to keep bleed,
rust and feud quiet and tidy.
The sound carries, mouth
full of dry jest and jewels.
We point out the particulars,
deep folds and messy pleats;
trouble the harmony and slow,
the length of dark and lightening,
the words, reckless jut and splay.

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Categories: Poetry, Writing

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