23 October 2009

Taking Stock

We are all in this soup together:
Each one with a place at an enormous table. 
Every one with the taste of story tender-
loined on a tongue sick with secrets,
a tongue that talks us. 
It is a kind of death.


Lips long for kisses but get easy flavor. 
Ears want understanding but do not listen. 
Fingers grasp but do not feel.
And for the breath the word the voice
there is no drink.

And so I write the rich sauce of our love
onto the steam of this day.
I savor the thick, smooth salt of
what time there is. I will make my stock of
all that is uncertain.

PROMPT: I chose words from my magnetic tile stash that appealed to me that day (I have lots!). The stanzas of this particular poem neatly emerged on three consecutive days.