How nice it would be if both one’s internal and external dialogues could be peaceful…
REHEARSAL FOR AN ARGUMENT
I am a square-shouldered
decision, a kite
snagged long ago,
my tedious semaphore
unrelieved.
It’s snowing, but
I cut the sound:
everyone’s already heard
bloodthirsty barking,
the scrape of claws
on tree bark.
Let them imagine
the tap
of each crystal flake
shattering on impact.
Placing my ear
to a rock,
I wait patiently
for the translation.
A thousand frosts later
the answer is
mine in a
mound
of sturdy flour.
I spit
and knead:
a lunge of knuckles
and there’s bread
and blood
all over.
flyingtrapeze.net 