Stopping By Words Spell
Whose words these are I think I know.
Who can really own them, though.
No one will see me stealing here
To watch these words become my own.
My sturdy tongue must think it weird
To mouth such blather far and near
Between your ears, that lovely space
Where song makes clatter something dear.
You give each word a goodly shake
And ask if this is some mistake.
This tune, so familiar, must leak
From the pillow used by Willy Blake.
These words are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have syllables to keep,
And text to eat before I sleep,
And text to eat before I sleep.
________________
John Bradley
As Blood is the Fruit of the Heart
Dos Madres 2025
