There are words in spades—
I find myself knee-deep and wondering
why they keep falling
from the sky.
It’s like mana from heaven,
sustenance for the soul and mind—
and the body, I smile, as I shovel
fistfuls of words in my mouth,
punctuation dripping from the corner of my lips.
I don’t wipe it away. I want to keep it.
Keep the memory from fading or diluting
with a napkin. No, I won’t stain another.
I will eat these words,
even as they threaten to drown.
Because they keep falling,
falling down.
JKolasch
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