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

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