For the rot­ten words we wor­ship

a wry­neck for ronv and James Agee

When our best ef­fort grips no pen, last-falling ink il­leg­i­ble;
When de­con­structed grins edge tooth and bone;

When graves or ash scat­ter truth; When the day
drone mutes; the night downs around; 

When the fluted thrust of grass or hands evade au­topsy;
When: for­get roses; When

the breath bank­rupts and

hours lose their turn; Then the trust
sur­ren­der; Then the join­ing of hand to hand;

Then a cer­tain mend or heal will crust over eyes [thank you];
Then the blessed scrawls dove-flut­ter [please];

Then the bells but­tressed peal to kin­dred;
Then naught but kind de­cay abrawl in rest.

So our free writ re­mains the epi­taph.


When I was first work­ing on this I posted it by ac­ci­dent. Woefully, un­fin­ished. To para­phrase Bruce Campbell: Well maybe I didn’t fol­low every last wry­neck rule, but ba­si­cally, yeah, I did. Don’t kill me.

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