He spoke in strings
that tied our eyes
like windless kites
to his pregnant tongue.
He whittled words
from softwood scripture,
licked splinters, and
sighed alabaster sighs
He coughed out poems,
novellas, whole volumes,
collected works. The books
fell to his feet and in the fire
the billowing smoke then formed a wind
that blew the bulbous kites from our skulls.
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1 comment:
beautiful, glenn
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