My pen bleeds it’s sickly sweet dewfall drawl.
Nothing inhabits this canister but dried up vowels
fit for lying salesmen and puffed up politicians.
The birds have picked clean the grain,
and the road is left clean enough
to walk on without sound.
The deer have stopped coming to taste
the salt lick that once bore the strident residue
of something that helped hold their water.
I’m feeding the fish with sawdust
one pinch at a time. They’re only fat
because they’ve had to eat each other.
Unbanish the bright and flowing nerves of pulsating ink.
Let breathe again the salacious, the rambunctious,
the florid and foul, the simple and bombastic,
that tickle, cajole, prance and pet
and set free the smallest fires.
4 thoughts on “My pen bleeds”
You’ve captured it. Beautiful!
Coming from you, Janet, that’s a true compliment. Thank you.
Sometimes its the smallest fires that burn the hottest. Pens have a way of leaking when there is a need of words….
See, I knew you’d get it!