The bound becomes its boundary's mother
I can't tell one womb from another
Confuse the gift up with the giver
A holy land, a sacred river
Form and content bleed each other
The metaphors are nearly dead
All they'll say is how they're said
I can't pull one word off another
I know these ripe canals by heart
Their contours are their works of art
Form and content need each other
What once was fresh is freshly frozen
A cavity once closed swings open
I can't hold one breath from another
Nascent fruit on ancient trees
Hard roots, soft possibilities
Form and content feed each other
I'll chop one down and eat another
