Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Friday, July 4, 2008

The wish well

I am stilled in tongues, stopped
like a grabbed clapper.

The emptiness rings between my teeth,
pealing away into an oily well.
A solid well, constructed from a year of grit.

There may have been clean nests of
delicate comment once but I
have lost the air of remembrance.

All the entrances and exits were
silted up with coarse despair
when I began to wander in the wishpool

my ankles cooling for too long.

You cannot lose your heat
without extinguishing your fire.

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