Friday, February 25, 2011

277. 5 Views of 2 Views

i am odd
you are even


i am an idealess

of sown leather
and seeded to anenomes

of the sea
and bound in buckled leather

for somewear else


you are worded

into panels and potlucks
with all kinds of aitches

& panes of alas
to see threw

before thaw


i am headed four-footed

and handed
back over to the author(ities)

for every grime I’ve ever omitted
to glean away

two beforenesses


you are biting the rode

your thyme your sage
and riding your words

to reed them into pieces
for wheeling people

from play to place


i am underwrought

and forewritten
given to bouts of breathing

shorn to mimicry
for the offices of grave decisions

and never had my tonsures out


you are wedged by waking

between page and scream
to see the swirl as sediments

of the little children who red
all the words they needed to red

but hadn’t ever red another sense


i am depilatory

and ated to the nines
that block the son from pining

for his wormth
and his wormth’s worth

of hosts or drafty ills


you are luculent

not trucked but given to
limpness only with an id

varied for variety
and reasoned out of ardour

weighs of doing things


i am berried

hands all read and every word
I read upon them recommend

a die it must be cast
or encased

there is an urgency to it


you are thin or inking

woods and woulds of words
of words of udders and howe

their bow’s could vine
around the necks of those

who never read

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