Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Word Habits

She wears her words like a wimple,
starched and confining,
they rarely engender dialog,

The black serge flowing
to the floor measures
each syllable
for its suitability
in the moment,
stewardship of expression.

Her underskirts cover
the slip of the tongue
the intimacy of feeling
the unguarded response
of a woman more nearly human.

But the pointed toes
of the serviceable shoes
punctuate the sense
of a mind trained
in precision not fluency.

No comments:

Post a Comment