Now I know that poetry
is a razor blade
slipped into a caramel
dipped apple of
sharp and tangy . . .
is as love’s wounding
rigor mortis of bites
of shamanic rites . . .
is a coroner’s tableau of victims
bodies stretched out on gurneys
for the inquest after the serial killer
slips free of the electric chair
because the judge knew his brother cain
at harvard law . . .
is hummingbirds and bats
dandelions, a lover’s hand
broken stalks, memories . . .
is my heart laid out across the sky
a constellation charted out of unknown
Today Victoria is guest-hosting at dVerse: Meeting the Bar and asks us to write a "Solilo-Quoi?", paying extra attention to form or other poetic devices in our self-talk. Click Mr. Linky for more and join in.