by Shelly Couvrette
December 6, 2005
Are not four things.
Are sharper than knives,
Silent famines of thought that
Shine silver like moons in the dark.
Three things are perfectly cold
By the deadliest scheme.
Three things are ancient wheels
That turn in the night,
Near misses and reflections.
Are stitching thought to flesh to deed,
Bone drawing blood slickened sinew.
Three things are problematic monsters
Ministering, waiting, and watching.
Copyright © 2007 Shelly Couvrette