Today's poem is by Lo Kwa Mei-en
Era for Recovery
If a matter of choice then my choir, surely. If voices
then pitchfork. Then just choose, if choosing is just
or barely. Confess: if my breast is a bird at his glass
the room is just a good cage with less window.
So breaking, interring. If bird, bust. So forgetting, allowing,
then burying. That seems-but then, no wake in sight
equates. If a machine of choice then the marvel of it
all about moved on at great speed and no accelerando
to choose or confess: if with it, confessor, then for me
forsake me. And if old god as given then offer or get off.
Choral echoes in a cage imply when lock then release
when and if one is ready. But then believers in no one
make a critical mass. I mean matter. As if trying to can't
collar. It was a master of choice. I could have kneeled.
Copyright © 2014 Lo Kwa Mei-en All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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