Missing
in Action a
In
pruient muddles of life
We
make prudish puddles.
And
prudish puddles run-off, run.
Run
down the alley not too far
From
my home,
home in the valley
On
the far hills of the shadow
That
dwells still after torrential
Thaw
of my life's blood of strife-free
Zones.
No
pruience, no foul. Play words
As
you will
The
rapture does not quite heal
The
rasp of her voiced concern
Was
at odds
With
the melancholy
Wings
of lithe
Gossamer.
Talking
to my body. It talks back.
The
weight of breath is this that
The
skein of
The
congesting stresses of
The
custodial confines of fine promises
The "special
place where bricks or colored threads are handled"
The
choked torment and joy
Enfolded
unfolded.
Speaking
to life. It talks back.