Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. — Leonard Cohen
I tend them carefully, these broken ribs.
In the bath, a warm amniotic fluid,
I’m no longer heavy as stone,
empty as a broken cage.
What remains are shards of songs,
faded feathered dreams,
all that could pierce the heart--
And the ribs?
Better broken than ossified.
After all, what can escape an unbroken cage?