Rip apart the bindings--
tear all your books
page from page.
Gather the crushed leaves of your delicate language.
Burn them black.
Scatter the ash
let the wind take what it wants.
Bury your heart.
Change your name.
Poetry will find you, still.
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Crushed Leaves Rip apart the bindings-- tear all your books page from page. Gather the crushed leaves of your delicate language. Burn them black. Scatter the ash let the wind take what it wants. Bury your heart. Change your name. Poetry will find you, still. |
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Lisa Janice Cohen, © 2001-2006 last updated: 03/26/2004 |