Forced to shut it down,
I could blame the mind
and its tangents, divergents,
detours and erratic rays-
It was required, however,
silence inside,
the volume became unbearable
under the waiting
behind healing.
Glances stolen by cocked arrows shot
straight from shoulder blades,
and daggers drawn across the word
arched with pain in glass sand,
esses like snakes smolder
And some vacancy was needed,
a clear horizon line-
some bleach, for feelings.
Yes, White-
now
Angels swallow song-
birds, as I sing along sharply
re-citing
the poetry written in the sky.
Artwork By James Yunge-Bateman, c. 1943 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
