Sunday, October 17, 2010

St. John the Dwarf

this is not a poem about mouths--or teeth

or the holes that bore their way into teeth

or about how the mouth is a hole that leads


it is about planting dry wood and waiting

for it to sprout, to take root, to circle down

to the center and find something like a


like a lilac as full as your belly, as violet

as veins on your thighs.

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