Revision
Our phosphorus tongues
rasp against a scaffold
of dry pines,
melt apologies
like sugar cubes.
In this lick of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger--
no reviving
downpour, clouds hold
only kerosene—
to soak our skin like rags
damp within this tinderbox.
Revision
Our tongues are phosphorus;
they rasp against a scaffold
of dry pines,
melt unspoken apologies
like sugar cubes.
In this lick of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger,
there is no reviving
downpour; these clouds hold
only kerosene
to soak our skin,
compress it like rags
deep within this tinderbox.
Original
Our tongues had become phosphorus,
abraded words
evaporated in this taste
of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger.
The years had formed a scaffold
of dry pines,
a home of orange embers.
Our skin compressed into kerosene-
soaked rags within
this tinderbox.
slight edit: changed rolled to compressed
Our phosphorus tongues
rasp against a scaffold
of dry pines,
melt apologies
like sugar cubes.
In this lick of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger--
no reviving
downpour, clouds hold
only kerosene—
to soak our skin like rags
damp within this tinderbox.
Revision
Our tongues are phosphorus;
they rasp against a scaffold
of dry pines,
melt unspoken apologies
like sugar cubes.
In this lick of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger,
there is no reviving
downpour; these clouds hold
only kerosene
to soak our skin,
compress it like rags
deep within this tinderbox.
Original
Our tongues had become phosphorus,
abraded words
evaporated in this taste
of despair,
this unexpected edge
of hunger.
The years had formed a scaffold
of dry pines,
a home of orange embers.
Our skin compressed into kerosene-
soaked rags within
this tinderbox.
slight edit: changed rolled to compressed
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson