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Where Are All the Words
They are jeans and sweats; they are what we
forget to wear when we are wearing them.
Patched-up seams are sewn.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless,
some died of poverty on the shallow page,
They are comprehensible only in alterations.
Old words are open graves,
that still pump out sounds,
a few peddle rhymes, dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the damn pity.
It is not 'I' that exhausts the throat of an owl,
it is the new wine. It needs to be put way,
that the dark vine may shine once more.
As for all the yet unwritten words,
they are hung around a hooting neck,
until bone or bough breaks.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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