whimsy #4 |
the apocalyptic verse escapes by a thin crack in the unwilling bag, the bag that tries so hard to retain everything good and bad about this life, the things I bring to your attention are turned away , they're gifts, they're inappropriate and hands are left full, full and unsure of seizing, the grabbing the let's fall down while we still have ground to fall on. when I write it's like swallowing myself it's a love affair with a piece of paper and a handful of tacks, it's something like surgery where the unwanted undulates like a string tied to the back of a car and then it becomes something like shattering and I can collect myself I can undo myself till I'm undone and you can stand
still
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