My Vibrant Words

it’s strange, how my words
are vibrant now, and safe…

my words are safe in themselves
they used to need your eyes
like vines need their trellis
eyes constant and seeing
and singing in the wind

like that trellis
whose sharp point
kisses the depths of earth
with its piercing pressure
insisting on being
a root descending
that trellis whose strands
thrum beneath my words,
and echo them to the singing winds

but they
(my words,
not the wind,
or the trellis,
or your eyes)
are strong now
and own-rooted
in depths and dirt
and though they
feel the twinge
of regret in your retreat,

they don’t mourn or weep

they are own-winded
in their own-rootedness

they are own-trellised
they are own-sung
they are own-caressed

and the sorrow in the wind?
it is the wind’s tongue in the gap
where my teeth-words used to be

The Blood Of Its Escape

the cry of the old house crawled out
between the bars and scrabbled
hard up the frozen-bone branches

it wrenched itself from the icy
grip of frosty-crystals and leapt
into the wind

into freedom

but the blood of its escape
remained running everywhere
and that lock still snikked shut

tight against the chain
and those cold long links
that stood arm in arm

against freedom
while the blood of this effort
was left in trails
smeared everywhere

in gory evidence of how
you turn it down over
and over and over

true freedom