Westwind

A Sunday Morning Offering

Jonathan Callies

Kiss my lips like coins

Kiss a beggar’s

 

Cup – Firm in its softness.

An affirmation of love’s

 

Neologism when words themselves are stale.

When people grow up grow senile

 

And wonder why birds congregate

Around park benches; the confusion of holding

 

Bread at dusk.

How drinking water in a vase leaves

 

The flowers with one outcome. How when

The pen forgets paper

 

Language is still-

born.

 

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