Another Near Miss

These words, too, run shallow.
I want them weighty, hugely swollen
filling the line like a mouthful of steak
too big to chew;
darkened by secret meaning
sharp with rancor
crowded as teeth
no space between to draw a breath
no light save the brilliance of bursting consonants.

A poem must be a ponderous thing
torn from the gut
cloaked in pain and anguish
difficult to comprehend.

Mine are clear as water.

-Carol Brockfield
Cram II, April 30, 2011


About Carol Foreman Brockfield

Poet in Medford, Oregon
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