6.23.19

Words
are claws,
and sentences
their tentacles,
they’ve sunk so deep
and wrapped so tight
we think them armor and diamonds.

Is your crown of laurels
a many-eyed bramble bush?
And where are you now,
in a thicket of funny snakes?

Perhaps they should be
colored,
painted and
feathered—
made to dance,
thrown to the sky
for us to see them, for;
dragons burst into firebirds.