Heaven’s Seventh, Walking
Swetness walked into a room—and I found effort sweet, corn’s popping.
Witness walked—and I found its thresh wheat, futuring.
Weakness—there was latent wick, bound to oak.
Heartless? It was only rooming headness, d(r)ying.
Tears-fulness came last, expunging tares of the past.
And Bloodless? washed to string swashes,
slung by walked washing.
--Douglas Blake Olds
Comments
Post a Comment