“They promised God’s Word
but everyone was sold once
they realized it was always
about flesh and that they can
eat of it as much as they want.”
Even though, and on the whole,
the woman is folded in the words
during the day, by the eventide
her word would become flesh,
and its feel and sound will find
or compose charms of rhythm,
cadence, and fast-tracked pulse
to tie as one a twirling of the two.
Or is it a mere nod or a naked stare
that summons notes from forty winks,
some hazy dash between word and flesh
and thus, neither this nor that, but something
that always plays a part of both—as if all are
as apt to move with ease—from poetry to prose?
No comments:
Post a Comment