The Flesh of the Word

The danger with hiding a poet from sunlight
is that you can never tell if he, the poet,
will ever grow to see
the walking stone up the hill,
the fall which always follows
very soon after.

His bones will never solidify
to carry well the memories
of lost days,
the echoes of mourning
in this deserted city.

There, where he exists, camouflaged
by the old rags you wear to work every day
he looks so familiar
you can mistake him with ease
for a younger version of your self,
the one which has something to say
to the world
but no voice.

Trapped, both of you, in a
permanent sunset
faithful imaginary friends.

Nothing moves forward,
nothing goes backwards either
without the ripen flesh of the words.