handed the formula to brand my soul home
maybe forever
was just a step
the way I needed
every entrance sold to me
to know that going past destiny
would thin me to paper
with a broken watch
for now
I am keeping
my trembling hands
in my pockets
always reaching for
the hidden blades in the lint
to cut myself a little more
to put blood in the poems
each time
I fumble
I come to know
that everything of value
is inside the stones of things
I’ve gathered gravity with
along my ways
to where I felt at home
I’ve masked
my mapping of the
calculus of hope
always pausing
with pretenses
just skipping
the stones or
placing them or
throwing them
into high grass
to watch and imagine
there was a pattern
the curved ceilings
of each romance
took to complete
the sky with
formed into shapes
a spun-clay soul
takes notice to it’s instincts
when on its own
path to a somewhere
besides somewhere
without a purpose
glass shards
I keep after finding
my shine has been reflected
crawl-fishing hard knocks
in dry beds
seasoning myself
with what my memory
can become
waiting for the rain
I am always
nearing potency
in a bottle
I am always spined
to the rewind of
Love’s almost ripe now
every time
I rise with
wet-thirst
I cup my hands
with an empty bleed
and my pockets
are full of stones
knowing I am
heavy wading
the afterbirths
anticipating drinking
more of that
vintage feeling
that somebody
is selling me
forever again
EJR ©
poem 139 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo27)
