Wight1 min read
Long the nail iron in
What’s cleft from time, the body seasoning.
Clamber, clatter, silence seeker.
Reek of all the morrows who round us ring!
I know well both sides our craven slab
So lustily devouring
We clay scrabbles, we clawed things.
Tombs are my books.
Bones are my poems.
Skin my page.
Breath, my ink
Read like blood, my essential kin.
Yesterday, my many spines.
The rags? Nothings after all.