Words have paper hands.They light their hands on fire to illuminate the meaning they are chanting with their tongues made up of silver bells while their feet do the Harlem shuffle.
With apologies to Emily, words, really, are the things with feathers that sing and sing and sing.
Words congregate thickly, like a murder of crows, on the branch of a poet’s brow.
Your branches are thick and wild, heavy with the howls of wolves. Your forest is inked darkly, a tattoo on the muscled forearm skyline of this cardboard and concrete nature preserve. — Annette Marie Smith