COPYRIGHT 2016 LITERARY JUICE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
If I knew Braille, perhaps I could read
the graffiti of purple-mouthed limpets clinging
to old, sea-washed boulders
the secret Bibles of zebra mussels clinging to dry-docked boats the last, profound gasps of snails and slugs dried out in clumps on the sun-baked pavement in front of my house.
There may be language in the teetering piles of droppings
the rabbits have scattered throughout my yard
written in squirrel on the skin of half-nibbled tulip bulbs
lifted from the ground and carried into the trees
in the fresh pattern of teeth marks gnawed into the table leg
by the dog. I am missing too many important things
because I don’t know how to read.
Produced from 100% Everything