it's drafty in here

Rosemary’s structure.

Daily Bread

I am bruised flesh of words, a coat around sensation’s spine.
I wonder at the crows that drop, wings closed as long as they dare.
I hear my own words proceed, a tin foil on fillings as I speak.
I see person in mind’s eye refreshed in new kind of flash.
I want to dive into the font divine of text sublime.

I am bruised flesh of words, a coat around sensation’s spine.
I pretend interest and averted eye is something other than fear.
I feel the black depth of throat threaten to cramp closed.
I touch a cloth, a cloak, a quote and come back out to skin.
I worry a stone, a word, a hymn to god long left behind.
I cry thanks to the plant whose leaves I pluck for my use.

I am bruised flesh of words, a coat around sensation’s spine.
I understand through thick mitts of perception, can’t lift –
I say I am free but the seagull’s gravity is its own, distinct, swift.
I dream myself into new beings, weaning from old dark communion.
I try to dissuade myself that the tongue in my cheek is unstitched.
I hope to slip it, slip on it, slick as herring down gullet, eat myself.
I am bruised flesh of words, a coat around sensation’s spine.

—

Well hello Funk. Back again are we?

Here’s your hat, what’s your —
hurry up — you might miss something
well worth complaining over. Scoot now.

The Funk’s bunk, like a curmudgeon
who used to grate, be obeyed, fretted over
now indulged as color, a kettle-headed child,
bang the pot to patronize a parody of its
sad-sock self. Feel free to mock, get bored
with its dramatic huffs the dry old fuss

you can shrug off when you remember
you don’t have to listen to this guff,
its fatiguing natter is a native comedy.