Those Who Read Feel the Weight of the Lure

She grieves a world glimpsed through veils
Of her own words—well, not hers,

Ours, I guess, as these are not mine.
What’s the count at which theft starts?

Six? How else should it be seen?
Strip off all the veils we are,

The smart tropes and the slant rhymes,
To pull out the heart of things,

To find things have no hearts,
No words for where the words are.

Lies are the way our poems move,
Lies and thefts, acts of the mind,

Poems that act part of the mind.
Smell. She holds up blood and love.

On that day she yanked the root
From the parched ground, globe of veils,

Eyes roamed to watch her mince words,
Cut peels. Scrub jay cached the poem.