But for thought.

Cut it cut it cut it
get to the bare bones of things;
The things in the still life of your frame,
scraping away the paint and the layers;
Ah there are the memories, towering and purple,
and there, the pulsing, queer ruggedness of your heart,
and the quivering, jagged lines of thoughts and deeds,
the things we gather in the crooks of our elbows
and the hollows of our palms.
Cut it cut it cut it
cut it down to the sinews, the bare bones,
through the meat of thought and need; cut
to what is essential, and pure.
You are alive and that is all there is to it.

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2 thoughts on “But for thought.

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