by Gideon Burton
Forgiven, like the scab of closing weeks
already healing over months of heat
and anger, time digesting trim and neat
the vinegars we tongue with what we seek.
I have a story and its little threads
unravel every telling just as though
the gyroscope of fictions hadn’t set
the terms sufficiently. And though I bet
against myself the thickly kneaded dough
of memory supposes all is dead
that isn’t present, tea leaves steeped in blood
and hatred swilling in a local Thames
some tributary of my lost amens
alive to drying ruts along the mud.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Silent Enigma[w.a.c.]