Thursday, April 14, 2016
Lay me down in a bed
of salt; scrape the color
from my veins, fill my
hollow spine, and close
this body tight.
Find the shape of flowers
in my hands. The hyacinth
with its white flies are wet
with wine, the broken paper
stems are drying wrong.
Let the prayer book fall,
it only has pictures.
You can be the boatsman,
you can play the bugle,
you can place your hand
on my back like an oath.
Only swear the lies stay
hidden, you are clever and
I am tired of believing.
.
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