If you cannot, then you must
slip off the rim of your stout blue cup,
run quicksilver on what can only be called toils,
the twin toils of posture and tired gates,
rustbound to a hinge – slim passage –
the way mice flatten and slip into a cupboard,
chew your rice, your wire, and every fiber
of what was pantried, constant and everwhite.
And if you cannot, then you must
sieve every drop of rain,
Every
Single
Drop of rain,
as each the never pure
holds a grain of black angry
that even a thousand suns, so risen
at once to dispel the wet masks of us,
the one black word remains – hard crystalled
and gantried for lightning.
But love runs like loose dogs, dry leaves,
old snow, and all the burrowing moles know
the musk of mildew and worm, roots,
the clenched snaps, blunt traps,
and the sudden spikes of vengeance.
And if you cannot go further
than the rim of your own myth,
if you cannot dull your rodent teeth,
taste your love copper, stand blind
and teeter over the edge of you,
then you must, yes, I must –
We must –
slip into the black folds of curtains
or new turned earth, to be
either smothered or fresh verdant.
Image: Eugene Triguba on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Devon , I can’t get enough of your poetry.
Thank you so very much. D
My pleasure, G,
Beautifully penned! ❣️
Thank you for the read and comment. D
This is really good. Great work!
Thank you so very much. D
Ah, this is fantastic! Incredible piece! Bravo!!! I love it! One of your best Devon!
Mae
Thanks Mae!
D
My pleasure!
M.
Soooooo awesome🌼🌼🌼💛
Thank you for the kind words, Peak. They are greatly appreciated.
D
I think I’ll be reading this daily. It’s beautiful. So glad I happened upon your page!!
Thank you so much, Dr. Happy to have you here.
D