the blades never touch the ice I mean my skin the lawn

I mean there's never any contact nothing touches anything

and nothing much ever happens we are all humming thirty or forty

feet inches micromilimeters from everything whirling in air

everything everyone humming like lonesome angels expectant

the blades never touch nothing cuts nothing bleeds everything

grows into itself humming an old song that never had any words



(some credit is due David Byrne of Talking Heads from whom I've accidentally lifted one short phrase and a title)

All poems by Br. Tom Murphy, O. Carm.

My Poems

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