finished with the poetry thing
now I have to deal with
dirty nappies, screaming,
a husband who thinks poetry’s quaint
but
where is it all leading?
there it goes
through the traffic
leaving a trail of tail lights
smudging up the rain
there it is
carved up on a butcher’s tray
but not yet dead
& there it was
in the split of curtain
drawn down in Jesus’ last words
the poetry thing is over
the reading, the talking
now for the living
where the bloody poetry thing
keeps on appearing
leading to places
where words are used
to describe what words cannot
& I’m a fool that tries
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