Every Cracked Lip is Full of Poetry

At first:


Board me and say,

“You don’t have what it takes.”


I don’t: so jump ship, ride waves to sullen coves

Of ancient thoughts held-sorry by verdant glades.


The departed rave and marry sight to curves;

But, drink piston oil silent, to keep eyes greased.


And so it is: so girls play sandbox games with hearts;

Oily black hands gather grains to wet, raw parts.


            In the end:


A clamor for words, as day bleeds ink into night;

Very slowly, I write—the remains lie obedient


On paper, for me—spread as cracked lips, full

Of their dark poetry—. As promised, I wrote—


a poem smeared with the balm of hours.


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