Surfaces

Three levels below

All of my morphemes

Lies the meaning

I impart to myself.

Rules of prosody

And years of Eliot

Lend real art

To my lies;

They serve as coverlets

For naked breasts

And gaping orifices.

Words are draped about me,

Shelved inside me

On reusable type,

And are liquefied to

Infinitely acceptable platitudes…

Not quite trite

And not at all true.

Come judgment day

I hope to belie

My former appearances

And hide behind

New letters and forms,

All but spared

From revelation.

--

--

Award-winning educator and published poet: A Consecration of the Wind, Fragmented Roots, and Souls Tilled Like Soil. Website: www.joannezarrillocherefko.com

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Joanne Zarrillo Cherefko

Joanne Zarrillo Cherefko

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Award-winning educator and published poet: A Consecration of the Wind, Fragmented Roots, and Souls Tilled Like Soil. Website: www.joannezarrillocherefko.com