There lies the heart, tattered and torn with painterly
effect, drawn closely to attain by numbers or visioning
a number of hurts, otherwise knowing how to apply
a dressing, a dry desert of embers, ready for dusty
places that reflect light in the distance.
It doesn't make sense to leave the sound crew behind
the camera, unless it requires such in such and such
script for playing all kinds of numerical games, ready
for top ranked players, A-list actors stand in black,
closely guarding thoughts in dust.
A tombstone perchance will see further childhood to
know how to eat lots of bacon and eggs, staples of
every house and home and weakness of heart,
to trail behind the others, picked last so to release
any thought, anxiety about scholarship.
So you want to heal this malady, this tack on the
windward, the southward that speaks of storms,
a course not taken, but braved so that all acceptance
can travel here and stay, whether a Jew or no,
a gentile or never making the pilgrimage.
2015 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.