skirt basket

I carried the yard in you —pebble stick bone moss cone feather string and stone— and what I could carry in you was nothing less than the world to me

up and up and up the mountain bend and bend and are-we-there-yet-bend in road till finally yes the water of you out and out and out forever lake of joy I can’t wait to be in you

dark the woods the earth the sky the field of you my mud-drenched world outside I watch you nose pressed to glass drops dripping down and down and down

oh heart of mine I’ve turned my back on bits and bits and bits of you

oh heart of me can there be room for all of you in the world of me?

before the thought of happy there was happy

before periods and commas and hard returns there were only things and things and things not good not bad just thisses and thats in baskets made of skirts

and then flesh became word and thought among us

About elisabethwithaness

Writing out loud at Apropos of Nothing
This entry was posted in Poetry, Universe Inside. Bookmark the permalink.

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