Words
Words
slip-slide
over the rocks
loosely weaving them
together with a tongue
as limp as algae
rotting in the sun
each thought
punctuating the otherwise
easy flow of speech
tripping it up
on discarded entrails
heads and tails
and fear and shame
so it lands
on all the jagged bits
between the image
and the stutterance
—Anamarķa Crowe Serrano
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(this poem was written as part of Offsets, a collective writing project which can be viewed at www.soundeye.org.)