Better Writers

There are better writers than me
like wind and carefully
accumulated shards sending vibrations
through anything not bolted down.
Rivers rubbing in their beds
making it smooth or feeding populations.
Immoveable but for vast efforts
and accountable to no one.
There is some water better than others
requiring reverence or membership.

There are better writers than me.
Composers of motion,
stone embalmers softening
with the tapestry of ambient threads.
Found out the hard way
your pet's eyes do not close
in the instance of euthanasia.
They just stop and cease resonating,
translated out.
There are some stitches better than others
leaving scars or character.

There are better writers than me.
Graceful ambushing, the smells
left on a hand after probing intimate skin,
the residue of age on a spear.
Something honed like a butcher's pantomimes
disassembling artfully,
stealing reflections in the implemental surfaces.
There are better mirrors than others
attaining power with the faces of many.

There are better writers than me
who can write things for you.
The darkness and geometry of love or fear
calling strident metaphors in swift meters.
Some loamy jazz parting
through the blood's blood,
cutting like fists might
wrapping unholiness and grace
in a strong wing, pressed angles
reptillian paper folded.
There are better words than others
chained into the shapes shadows cast by.

There are better writers than me
who will never get it right.
My untranslatables that will never know rest.
Agitated, groping, alive,
desiring exhalation
to be removed from adversity
chasing terrified the thing
no longer inside running in strange freedom
all legs and wet webs plodding.
There are better things to hunt
than another's sacks of bones
smashed against a complete wall,
better ways to obtain
black shivering soft dust and clinging hair.
Better things to throw against objectivity.