The continuous search for truth
rips, slits, and soothes…

like a journey on ice it slides
towards the horizon far.

We each a turgid ragamuffin
who dare to bend; stretch

the cartilage or pull a muscle.
Rigor mortis coming in

to teach us a tale or two.
Sun spreads her fiery arms

to embrace, to burn, to bone
each shy squalid heart-excuse.

The rest of us cough like pilgrims
and decant our tales like sherry.



19.57
06/02/09