by Gideon Burton
If there are ways of waiting I have yet
to try, then tell me. Tell me anything,
in fact: pretend, perform, distract -- just set
a boundary, simple terms, or everything
contracts again against the inner bone
of herniated cartilage, this lump
of darkened tissue I am calling home,
some hinterland of smoke and jagged stumps.
I do recall the aftermath of griefs
observed too closely. They were pure enough,
provided nothing wrecked against the reef
of suffering in isolation's rough
and roughing prisons. Tell me what to say,
to do, today, to space the times I pray.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - jugbo