The old men talk-
to one another.
Eagerly they lap
small elegances of this woman
plucking at her petals
to warm themselves again
by her once-love.
“She was swanlike,” they say, “Thrown there in winter’s lap,
her eyes were the hearth I walked to;
Time blunts sharp truths.
The hard edges give way to rabbit-softness
and a gentle succulence.
without the inconvenient sharp bones of
who she was
or the words grooved deeply
into her journal pages
by oh-so-elegant agony
as it writhed, letterlike
birthing a broken world in two words-
(Written/Submitted by GlassSlippers)
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