a poem for today, 18 December 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of seven sentences and its image]
The body is only the first platform for the voice.
He crouched next to her and tenderly stroked her hair.
The truth will always sound like lies to a sinner.
If you don't quiet your child down when they start rumbling then your child will go into the next area.
The simplest words convey the inexchangeable; they switch back and forth with each other all around it; it appears not.
Rather than exalt it, I hide it, refuse to let it be touched, go kicking and screaming into the discursive.
Some of us are becoming the men we wanted to marry.
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