my words

[a little waltz]  Nothing new here; its been done before. A mere return
to some sanctimony somewhere; a sanctuary of wishful words–a solemnity
reaching out for what can become whole.

o my words

help the words

let them disassemble the hatred

that flies through gutters

a pigeon waddling over foreign pavements

o that word

the one that cannot bespoke said or undone

the words that fly bitter stream of flesh in unconscious

distances to the temple and above your eye

caught with a new blink and shift of nerves

o my words

they cannot be reversed

longing to reach into the

right cavity of your wisdom teeth

empty and removed

o my words

the babes that cannot cry

only limber themselves up

steadily steadily into the

lampshades before dawn

the dew is over them

the due is on these words

o my words

my words

shapely and forbidden

longing to make hinges

building roadways beyond


o my words

my words

they leave





help the words

return the words

take them back

o the words


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