the marrow inside you might say,
'lose the cliffs' and only in human void
will be truth gone where truth will go,
whether or not the ocean is swallowing
the land or the land eating itself.
your bones think, at first, 'I'm traveling for free'
inside this body, free of sound and beauty
and blood growing hair.
but somewhere after removal from the
room darkened for life is a mirror,
the flesh of 'I am rocks' and heavy
toward an ash, which has
the mouth inside you might mumble,
'I am an idiot, ' upon realization of this.
'lose the cliffs', sure, but there
are far too many noises in words,
this is how the sky
the painters have all missed this,
it is not blue or grey, it does not
blink or circle or howl or demolish,
it does not scare those early bones.
the weather inside her eyes might see you
too many times, 'I am an idiot', 'I am
rocks', and she will leave you,
lights on and on and on...
you'll think, at last, 'I'm free'
gone of skin time and love, inside
writers may miss this too, but at least
they have tried painting ashes to language,
their words hiding too many noises from the sky,
whether or not the fire burns the book
or the book eats itself.
this is how the sky finds you,
pen in hand, full of hate.
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Comments about this poem (Waiting Room by John Courtney )
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