July 6

To this body I should offer rewards,
say, “Awe, dear savior, your wares
give me space to dance in, your skin
gives life like a rare earth element.”

But oh too often the wars I reared
over the shape of my ears drowned
out any good thoughts this wearer
hears. No, this skin is a dreary

pair of waders, a wad of odd gum,
the dust from some old dull saw.
It is the invalid ward of an intellect
rich and imaginative, though distant.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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