*not an ars poetica, but close*
If the clichés come, let them.
Sometimes they are the only way to speak,
the huddled mass that chimes low in the throat,
sing hymns to a wrist, what do you worship now, love?
And say, it is you.
Descending dust, deep full thrum of feathers falling,
who will know what I mean, if not in these?
Muffled kneel and ask mercy for the phrases
that mean nothing ‘til they do.
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.