Water under the world: for value we curl & wind our wounds to speak—for our awe we circle our areolas with fingernails lightly forming you—woman—I—man— us—pudendae. From nothing curls nothing sweet, ink just stains on paper— legends outride, walk ahead— a festive little prayer—gentle little claws the car famously goes no faster bitter about this—it is true— my sight shifts, rams across the license plate; blood is not in the eye, then, but before it, richly running, turning & resurging below the conjunctiva & proves the humanness of eyelid— a questing hole into which is given a perch for the light that we allow. With a life meant to be with roam & verge of covering—we sleep, we slip into this insongg. We letter along our necks: Honest lungs let out all poverty. Talk with words; everything else slips together.
Derek Henderson Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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