Words, some days, gnarl the brain,
teeth of a rusted saw trying song
for winter’s darkly frosted morning.
other days they oatmeal thick,
slopped down in throat’s bowl
like the first hominids grunting
towards a crazed relentless God.
On scabbed knees in mud they pray
for language that connects, an urge
that makes a maybe magic where death
alone forgets to groan her luckless dirges.
Briefly.
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