Tuesday, August 16, 2016

He Liked his Things to be Alive

He was an alchemist
when there were alchemists
who were deserving of the name.

He worked in malleable substances:
bread dough and mud and clay
had brought him fame.

Others conjured gold from old
abandoned medicines
or pulled the volupté of silk

out of salt hay – but he preferred
incurring births of sentient flesh
out of a mesh of all the better parts

of Earth: mulch and silt
and amber minerals comprised
the heart of his organic arts.

And he would bake them into bread,
or mould them into candlesticks,
or leave them in a cozy lump

and read to them in bed.
He liked his things to be alive.
He didn’t like them dead.


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