Thursday, May 28, 2009



There are broken bones in my poems,

and bruises where the words

have been shaken, and scars

that speak of recklessness.

My poems need bedside care.

They don’t breathe with freedom.

The phrases take short breaths,

as if all the words

are straining to stay alive.

Each line lets out its life slowly

like the last words of someone

who has always been lost.

Let the nurses bring bandages.

Let the doctors send for specialists,

the ones who heal words and hearts.  

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