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silent Sundaysstruck enough, the crystal cracks and we are so fascinated
by the light that sparkles off the man-made flaws. we forget
and stand too close. the brisant report of the facets' fail
and we are showered with the razor splinters of our folly.
jolly good fun to the observers. but there is still a pulse,
deep within the core of this frame and I am not one given
to more than an acknowledgement of difficulties. blood and pain
are not reason or season to turn tail and run to the horizon.
battered, yes. bruised, yes. but even when the tethers slip
my grip on the headboard where you bound me with a promise...
remains. hurry home.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Lost ThoughtsI. There are birds nesting
in the hollows of my bones.
Sometimes, when it's cold,
they flutter their wings
and my legs ache.
II. I kissed an island boy once,
who told me I tasted of oranges.
His hands were shivers of rain
down my spine.
engramscyanometry is a word
and when i first allowed for it
i thought 'here's my Catcher in the Rye!'
but, i heard you've already died
and i was never your apostle
and tomorrow, or in some thousand years
they'll find no fossil in your ancestral cave haunts
which proves i ever took your name
for colours in the sky.
She tells him the child is not his.
The old women mutter and cluck
as they slap wet cloth against river stones.
He wraps his arms around his chest as though he fears
he will also sprout with child. "A dove,"
he quietly asks? She points to a blood spot
on her cheek. "He pecked me here." It still hurts
when she touches it. It always hurts.
He loves the child, the cuckold's hatchling. He loves his lying wife.
But he knows she lies. When the old men stumble
into the stable, beards matted, coarse as grain,
he simply mutters, "Drunks," bad wine, betrayal.
One afternoon as he saws cedar planks, sawdust thick as pollen,
an angel catches his hatchling as he falls from a branch.
"I shaped the angel out of air," he thinks, so desperate
to believe that a dove pecked his wife, and she swelled with child.
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