There is a force that breaks the body, inevitable, the by-product is pain, unexceptional as a rain gauge, which has become arcane, rhyme, likewise, unless it's assonant or internal injury, gloom, joy, which is also a dish soap, but not the one that rids seabirds of oil from wrecked tankers, that's Dawn, which should change its name to Dusk, irony being the flip side of sentimentality here in the Iron Age, ironing out the kinks in despair, turning it to hairdo from hair, to do, vexing infinitive, much better to be pain's host, body of Christ as opposed to the Holy Ghost, when I have been suffering at times I could step away from it by embracing it, a blues thing, a John Donne thing, divest by wrestling, then sing. Copyright © 2017 Diane Seuss. Used with permission of the author. |
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