Are you a bruised reed?
|
A smoldering flax?
|
Are you a broken branch?
|
|
Oh, and do you love it?
|
Do you love to forget like I do?
|
|
One will sift as wheat,
|
But one has come with robes.
|
One will slice your ankle.
|
Love, love, love.
|
|
There are these sharp gold knives
|
In this space meant for affections,
|
Where the pink skin baby once belonged.
|
|
When I speak, "I cough them out,
|
Gather them up in my arms,
|
|
-----------------
|
The Bruised Reed
|
| Anathallo |
