showeringherself
shepours
herselfthe falling fire of Icarus
ina squeezebox recollection
thather memory
bellowswith the smells
shewrites poems with
shewrites
innatural disaster inks, she says
especiallythe rapidly oxidational colors
withtheir gyrational devils
inthe slivered details
thatthe wind
keepstrack of, she says
that way the seasons
knowevery
pouredentrance of skin
from tautto aged
shesears
emotionsin stretched recall
withaccordion scars
thatplay all the uses
weused to have for limbs
shesays we don’t feel
thecrawl past time
vacatedby stars
inthe crackle and split skin
shesays robber grooms
areturning the spit
tovine brides for sin
shesmears
herface with these ashes
curlingthrough each word
onthe page of the poem
thatmight have been a tree
onceoutside her windowed home
shewings
shewaxes
shemelts
beforeany charred remains
rolleach rise on a plain
inthe distant look
aroundthe bend
sheis gaining entrance
throughthe sense of rain
that may just be
beginningagain
EJR©
poem 137 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo25)
http://theblindlantern.blogspot.com/2012/04/showeringherself-shepours-herselfthe.html
