Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Chest of Drawers

Between words and mouth,
is a vast wasteland
of dead space.
Heavy with heartache
and humility
filled with rage
and guilt.
A vacuum
of unspoken pain
and deep trenches
of resentment.


The rain stops
in the steamy mist
i spy 7
in that murder of crows-
as I pass, they call out,
as if expecting me
as though awaiting me-
as if to bring me
the gift of 7.
A secret that's never been told
of journeys never made
told in echos
and caws-

then lift off squat and absurd;
hurled into unseen lifts
and airborne.