It is strange how words
cut through crust and dirt
caked on and gathered in layers
from the dusty rumble of the day,
This is a system of forms and lines
but felt like injection,
as icey flow
into new action.
Again you failed to outwit
the inevitable energy of the universe,
always bringing people back to you,
their sloping scawl on the page
a reminder that they are still listening
to your syncopated heartbeat.
Weight has caught up to you
and for the thousandth time you fail
to outwit her
because she lives in the back of your headspace
and she feeds off these words
They nourish her in a way nothing else does.
She is calling you to breathe fire,
speak in tongues,
drop messages of your own
back onto the page
and back in the repository of the universe
to find what needs them.
Blend these words
with all the ones that have come before
and carry them as oxygen cells
in your veins.
Andrew Bushs’ photographs of envelopes showcase the beauty and simpilcity of the letter.