I have written of the shadow
in this sacred cuneiform,
these holy hieroglyphics
and it seems arcane to demand
these troubled brows and whiskers
to learn such things as what a nun
may mean to me, or not.
Shall I strip the word of vowels
the image of it's story?
Should I send with ravished beams
a trembling masted ship
from shore to shore throughout the storm
and give it nothing but a casual kiss?
You sit waiting, all ablaze
to know what
what I mean, what I say
what? Do I mean what I say?
and I laugh and tell you of once a girl
in a story, you haven't read it?
Well then this is not for you,
it cannot be.
Off with you and your hungry eyes
I write the holy verse
use the old world's words
to spin my hurt, my grief,
oh help me help my unbelief.
I use this sacred cunieform
to tell the world how I was born
Now would you read it back to me?
No comments:
Post a Comment