A Year of Poems – Day 283

Language splinters at the bottom of the barrel
Not in the interesting way, where new forms are made –
Broken pieces collected for a coastal collage
Or arranged into new shapes never seen before,
No the wood splinters, digs under fingernails,
Cuts the cuticle and won’t come out
There is no knife to cut the problem out.
The garden withers in the dead dry wood.
Let us stop digging wells in drained rain barrels.


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