it is a matter of style

 it is a matter of style

the tough words take no prisoners,

set no smoothed path,

hurl rocks at your head 

ducking -

licking the grazed shins,

stumbling over realisations,

uncomfortable the shards in your shoes.

oh yes, the simple words can bring

the story to the sting,

can knife the guts up a sunlit lane;

but its the tough words from the seams

deep in mind’s mine, where the

pressure lodestones are, that

tole the indelible.

why can’t the words soften,

become more gently feminine,

lead the child around the cataract?

why do they always raft the white waters,

spitting the urgency of the hindmost?

why the cynic?

why the chitin carapace?

the urgency of uprighting the beetle

onto the legs of the thematic 

iridescence of the kingfisher

or the languidity of the auora.

the old leopard cannot change its spots,

the prey half recognises the leopard,

the slowness caresses the anticipation

that what is caught is small prey:

it is the hunting down,

the bringing down after the chase

that legs the arterial blood,

that satiates the telling.

on this fulcrum of indecision

it is i, the poet, who seeks guidance;

the wisdom of solomon,

the telling of the way.

am i lost? or is the destination?

and how will i ever know?