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Notes for a poem where the creative process is represented as the process of aging and dying, in reverse.

March 22, 2010

A poem is no longer just a poem, but the basis of body of work.

A skeleton around which the garden of flesh might grow
and flowering skin can be folded, and a soft machine installed –
to prove its strength, and embellish on its structure, satisfy the sense of it
and make smile its fellow citizens that might have shrunk away in disgust.

These lose bones I play with. This limp lily I turn in my hand.
Graveyards of bone, waiting to be stacked into a skeleton –
in turn waiting to be clothed, filled out with the colour of blushes,
dampened with sweat, tears and some rain
and internalised like a large meal, until she shrinks away
into a feeling of love, and an ease with which
two people understand each other.

These houses of worship that are built on those bones
which have been shown by the heart and the voice to be true.

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