Jonah says a poem is words that we care about,
words like letters spelled c-a-t, sounds like kāk, named Britta.
Outside a cardinal prophesies from the roof below
the arrival of a letter that echoes like church bells.
Well, I want to run from that lonely song!
With cat and cake and Britta in tow
I will warble my way to a tomorrow
where silence can be a poem, too...
I will warble my way to a tomorrow
where silence can be a poem, too...
where silence isn’t the same as self-immolation.
Because after she died my tongue turned fire-
crisped log lagging behind my longing
to rescue the too-hot words I care about.
Because after she died my tongue turned fire-
crisped log lagging behind my longing
to rescue the too-hot words I care about.
warble my way to a tomorrow <3
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