Dessicated Wounds
Our ancient poets often whisper in
Slivers only, as dumb as crescent moons,
But then are hardly mute. The centuries’ sin
Is degradation of their voices. Dunes
Against destruction have been washed across
The manuscripts and yet now only glints
And splinters shine from Sappho at a loss
To woo her woman or her man, with hints,
And nothing more, of how his beauty stabbedessir
Her, made her skin as vulnerable as verse
To danger, red the threat of being grabbed
By shattering eternity—or worse.
..We lick the shards that time has spared for us
….As Sapppho licked her lust to clear its pus.