Monday, July 5, 2010
O maker of paper and dams
formed after minerals of time,

teach me to adjust to this bed,
varved histories and sensitivities.

The gradual now a landslide—
love’s ardent professors

fail and wait, follow, attest.
But no one doubts

clay tablets were the first mean of writing.
Dust-gray to orange-red,

earthenware and stoneware,
there’s a task for broken poets:

Geophagy. Ravenous,
I could stand to be less stubborn.

Rocks weather, rise through ledges,
clay in my mercenary mouth.
Thursday, July 1, 2010