Wordle #164


She is the accoutrement of a cage

clasped irrespective of occasion.

I carry her pale, tremulous fist

aggrieved by the imperatives of war

in my sacrum as if I were a basin.

She is sacred, rareified water,

the salt that signifies entanglement.


She clusters at the end of my pen

the perfect cheat, the myomane

with a heart the shape of a strawberry.

Her wide grin swivels and floats away.

I sew her runaway feathers into my back.

To know freedom is to love

with the lightest touch possible.

the first half is from an older poem and I continued it