Monday, August 10, 2009

the old grows old,
so it is said,
and often practiced,
like right left rights,
with turns and footsteps,
it comes and goes.

i lift.
i pull,
no weight like the stiff kind.
no stillness like the cold,
hand over hand,
from back to front.
keep the weak in the middle,
and the left bearers on the right.
and keep the high hole,
and dry.
and stone bearers
painful hearts nostalgic,
with old memories,
and false stories,
and a heavy shoulder shovel.
come blister,
come splinter,
come rotten wood stench.
and the hole so surely buried,
i'll take with me a burning pain,
a suture-less reminder,
from my waist to the edge of my ribcage.