All you bring me are words,
Buckets and reams and armloads
Of words.

I have filled closets and drawers with them
Filed them, stacked them neatly in rows,
For reference.

I could cover my walls with your words,
Stuff them into cracks beneath the windows
And the doors,

Weatherproof, and still have words left over
To hang in the guest room and decorate
The porch.

A houseful, a life of talk, when I am aching
For an act and you bring me yet another offering
Of rhetoric

Stored with the growing body of discourse,
While I watch my emotion atrophy and die
For lack of a deed.


Thoughts on the Fifth Chakra


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