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Unto the Ground

A poem

Published on:
April 11, 2017
Read time:
1 min.
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Our hands twist, fingers entwine,
play make believe with a pen:

I am not a thought but a child
I forget every former thing
I am not a thought but a man,

who increases knowledge, who increases sorrow,
is twisted, dirty, broken, alive with fire and a scroll gently chewed on

I need a little light
I am not a thought in the mind of God
I am clay inside the hearth

What will become of me? Of my body—elbows, toes, lungs—
every step, every dance through scraps of poems which
never satisfy death, nor hell, nor the eyes of man
—stupid, careless, wild?

The eyes of man see blank spaces with room to write.
Dirt beneath my finger, molded in clay
all we do in half measures the coals burn clean.

But this body was written in love
slanted, pivoted to earth,
a knot tied together at the limbs
—flawed, gorgeous in a way.
I am human, just human, which is a lot

But Oh! That I had wings like a dove.

Tommy Welty
Tommy Welty is the husband of the beautiful Alyssa. Their son, Atticus Mac, was born the summer before Go Set a Watchman was published. He lives in the Chicago suburbs where he serves as a worship leader and works at the local library. His poetry has been featured in The Curator, Silver Birch Press, Rock & Sling, and on NPR’s All Things Considered. Follow him on Twitter @tommywelty.

Cover image by Brad Helmink.

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