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Poetry in Lit Up
Two Layers
a poem
The syllable surmounts, dries, lances,
hearing teeth clacking in a darkened room.
No, I wouldn’t shock you. You should know
that this is a safe poem, it won’t hurt anyone,
though it’s in a dark room and the teeth of it
could. They’re sharp enough on skin. Made
for masticating, as opposed to fascinating
a reader. A wild half-rabid thing is in the room
with you, even now. I trained it not to bite,
but I can’t pretend to know its mind.
II
Kindness held against my cheek as a stone,
cold and smooth, heavy, old, polished, the
weight presses the palm as a promise might.
They’re everywhere, kindnesses, along
this stream and in the current. I fling one
to find another. Who littered them here?
Who polished them? No one can carry them
all, no one can name or feel them, not all, not
through ages or eons. I pocket
a few, in case I can’t find this place again.
