Today's poem is by Benjamin Cartwright
[Spring kinks its shiv]
Spring kinks its shiv
in thigh, in lyric I
misfiring, it spills
wrist, wrist, wrist.
Birds flit, grift, tilt in flight
chirp in twig-crib.
I, bliss-chimp, dimwit,
dig in hips, nip figs, fling first.
Isn't spring illicit?
This isn't its script?
Light fills twin kilns with fists.
Grip insight, I think. Sink.
Kitsch is this lip I lick with dim instinct.
I insists I brims with thrills.
Nitwit Ithrill is invisible.
Still, I is shrill.
I flits in this,
I is birthright.
Copyright © 2013 Benjamin Cartwright All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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