***
this joint(ly) swollen with
fat.years and
salt like small splinters of debris
and it sticks and stinks and
all i want to do is
clean
it,
but cannot seem to
squeeze this ring past my knuckle
when at last i wrest it like:
candy taking from a petulant
crying baby) from my
angry awakening nervous finger
another ring behind is left
impressed into skin
the sleepy pillow face marks
of eternity
-soft and pale
like clean linens
and wrinkles creases scars scrapes that have
gutted up and pocked all others
are seen not there
not in this flesh
that is:
as a child’s face
young and smiling and new
,and groovily claspily holds and even seems to
close in around (like sheets tucking or
gentle nurse.hands ,as tides washing warming in
,but never out.
)this battered
endless path
– of gold
***
I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love. – Mother Theresa
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