Scratch Plate

New poem – draft (as is norm). Trying to destroy words again (words don’t like me).

Scratch Plate

Pleasing the ears, but
we just can’t say enough
to fill those sneaking gaps
between our worlds.

I’m sorry, I am.
I am, I’m sorry.

It was always that –
he thinks of worms as words –
a gentle slither, drooling, dribble
of a matter turns so suddenly
to a downpour; and the pond fills
and the frogs slip out
in a smooth oozing
of bellies; frogspawn gathers
about the bushes, and the watermill
continues to churn,
and churn
and churn.

I saw him earlier,
when he was bawling
and falling; tearing
about the floor
for spare bones.

I’m sorry, I am.
I am, I’m sorry.

But the words don’t work:
fall about in
insert insert clusterfucks
that just manage to keep their lines:
in-an-un|derstanding familiar linear|ity.

But they have to carry on.

Pick up the bags beneath
their eyes and throw them over
worn shoulders, for the long
walk home.

 

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