Poetry

Cogs and whirrs

You can see them if you look closely. The fixers fixing. Broken things.¬†Old things. Silly things. Brave things. Shattered or whole, the fixers fix. ‘But why do they fix?’ You ask. ‘Because they are the ones who need to be fixed the most,’ I say.

 

 

Poetry

The Pulse of a Puppet’s String (draft)

A heart of wood,

not easily turned,

yet crafted with

tides of love.

Resilient to all

afflictions, desiring

that which many dismiss:

humanity. Flesh.

The drumming of ruby

rivers through a

blue-green maze,

a pillow inflated

with air inside

the kinetic cavity.

But porous grain

and rounded knots

only become sinewed

in the wake

of honesty and

its brother,

truth.