It Might Be Best if you Put This Back Where you Found It
Ink bleeds from the white of paper,
Cooling from the boil of direction.
I can’t cut this and leave.
I can’t dip my palms, drink, never thirst again.
If you pick up this brand,
This write this down,
You will be as I am:
Sitting on the grass,
Tracing your pen-blade in rhythm with paper,
Chaotically carving yourself of ink,
Chest aching hollowly for its fill.
Whatever souls are of —that shining wet clay --
You will need as I do,
Bleed as I do,
Grass tickling your heels, blade moving shick shick shick,
And, as I do now,
You will thirst.
Cooling from the boil of direction.
I can’t cut this and leave.
I can’t dip my palms, drink, never thirst again.
If you pick up this brand,
This write this down,
You will be as I am:
Sitting on the grass,
Tracing your pen-blade in rhythm with paper,
Chaotically carving yourself of ink,
Chest aching hollowly for its fill.
Whatever souls are of —that shining wet clay --
You will need as I do,
Bleed as I do,
Grass tickling your heels, blade moving shick shick shick,
And, as I do now,
You will thirst.