byLauren Hynde©

Poems, yes, but of fire,
devouring. Round
as fists before the danger.
Sure boats caught in the storm.
Cruel. Pure. Destilled
from the cruelty of birth,

Poems, yes, but rebels.
Full as if with water and,
like water,
opened to the geometry
of all bodies. Whole,
dispite the clay
and the tender
of their star shaped profile.

Poems, yes, but of blood.
Let those poems exude
from shadow. Release their pus
in the public square.
Loud, vibrant like
an earthquake
an exorcism
or the death of a child.

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