Verga

I am about to die tho it may take a few more years

So what can I say to wake myself and maybe you

To the wonder that grounds the ground itself

And every blade that grows to knit the tongue

That twists my breath into these words

~

This is my only gift the gab that wakes me up

And maybe you if you can cut the crap

Of endless craving for anything but

The treasure that is always here

At the tip of your tongue

~

Like that word you have forgotten

The word for that dimple between your nose

And your upper lip

Or the kind of rain that evaporates

Before it reaches the ground

Ah there it is the ground

~

Of gods and gourds and words

You see it if you turn away

From all those words

About things that everyone says

Will bring you peace and just

~

Hold some dirt between your hands

And consider the stuff of which

Each one of us is made

How strange that dirt can weave

A thing like you or me

A thing that shapes these sounds

Between its ears

Then bends the air it breathes

~

To send them thru

Another pair of ears into

Another you

Another shaper

Of dirt and wind and worlds

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