by on November 15, 2011

Issue 1 Poetry

I think we ate when we talked.
We filled our throats with vowels.
We ate from bowls: mouthfuls
of sound in wooden spoons.

They are well-wrought and intentional,
or more than that, imperative.
Eat,speak,tear with teeth.
I could stack sounds as tall as him.

Just is unreasonable certitude.
It has a heft to it.
Faith expressed at right angles.
His jaw knows no other syllable.

Picture something that he sees:
a wedge splitting a log along its seams.