syllable rolled
from breath and flesh it came
from something older than
the rest of me,
stories whispering themselves over
and over not waiting but
expecting the bright cold day in April,
the dark and
stormy night,
the girl with her fall of steel
rope hair over the tower wall, syllable,
tell me a trouble,
the trouble
comes when I swallow restless
tasteless things needing to be
said to become
in this world
built from
days
stacked like
plates.
pray for us, not with your lips
they were made for other
purposes your spider hands, too,
manipulating thumb & forefingers
into the broader space around
us don't
wait pray for us pray into the
delicate vaulted cathedral of your
everbeating heart.
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