Look at these marks.
Each one is a story
and each story
is a self-inflicted wound
borne on the sharp side
of whatever instrument
was handy.
But wounds soon heal
and stories grow to be
outplayed even sooner,
fibrous tendrils of language
we'd rather see buried,
languishing forever
in the far, green deep.
Together we've made silence
out of imaginative calamity,
a dark feat that shines
as a new pearl,
trapped in the world's gaping maw
until it is held, at long last,
on the steps of a lifetime.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Menomena, The Pelican
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