words

I only need so many words to work
with: a simple
dab of wet clay before your wet eyes before my wrinkled fingers
until with nature’s collusion your wrinkled smile cracks its way through
rock and stone and wall man-
made to keep things quiet,
controlled, methodical, preceding careful swallows and the tears
that never show, contained
behind a false smirk glowing tucked away
discomforts, deceptions
making slaves of fire and
heart and
soul
and woman, plates pushing, heat
moving, bearing light on contradiction al(l)-
together now
and begging of my words some finish, unnoticed, like the refugee
‘s children, the child refugee, the deluged heart pouring into public
reservoirs too full – too empty! – with everything
to keep as you would
keep this passion voiceless and reserved and all-too-
mannered, all-too-
human, as a recompense for hearts-too-
broken, as a banal salvo of that spirited myth, discharged
by serious lips, that wounds are healed by time and
never
I
with words.

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