Читать книгу Self Help - Elizabeth Poreba - Страница 7

I’m made of words mostly.

The rest is thin.

Words hold me up

like bones beneath the skin.

The thought of a soul within

is mute or moot

and slides in a vowel shift

from silent to irrelevant.

Perhaps such accidents

of sound are not mere

motions of the tongue.

I ponder them as seers once

studied fissures in burned bone.