Posted by: scintillatingspeck | October 5, 2013


this quiet corner of the library
with its leaf-strewn armchair
behind the stacks,
the October sun beaming softly
through the window,
a nest of needed respite
for me

the volumes of my thoughts
arrayed in uncatalogued rows-
lengths and lengths of effort,
rumination, memory, love-
I cannot bring myself to read them,
not now,
when every chapter ending
tears off scabs with red force.

my fingertips set to sacred work,
scattering older stories
into leaf-piles of disassembled consonants,
sighing vowels,
reconstituting language
from crumbled myths
no longer believed

weaving daisy-chains and vine-trellises
strong enough to support the gravity
of words that sever,
of words that bind,
of resolution,
of untranscribable love.


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