The Sinews and the Bones
this old language
will stretch
until it snaps,
leaving me
with two live ends
and a bright sting
upon my hands.
Even now
the strands
are taut
and thin,
the blue nerves
of words exposed.
Blood
and meaning
are the same,
so whisper
the sinews
to the bones.
The ink
that stains
the page
makes a bridge
of my dead tongue,
To span the valley
underneath
where I wander
all alone,
To comfort
fallen stars
dying
on the ground.
Someday
this old language
will end
where it begins,
leaving me
with eager wings
on scented breeze
above the sands.
Even now
the strands
are taut
and thin,
the sweet pain
within them grows.
Blood
and meaning
are the same,
so whisper
the sinews
to the bones.
June 11, 2005
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Also by William Michaelian
POETRY
Winter Poems
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
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Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
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Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco
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