Sunday, March 21, 2010

Thin Skinned

Let the body be its own

poem; ink, scars, pock-marked, anything
but decorous. You are indecipherable

enough to keep up with the best
of them. Let the poem be

a cave from which words echo.
Shout and listen to them all

come back like bats, leathery,
blind, hearing their way skyward.

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