Talk, there bails milk from hull and bowl.
Talk, mooring foot to mold and
letting dangle arms to whims.
Talk, both vague and prompting,
as if to cut small, perilous sapphires
from words, themselves nursed on words.
Talk, a map drawn in black on Spring red,
a hurtled heart in a case of fists and
volatility, a ring of continuous contact
wound in the threads of a tunnel.
Talk, sweet proud serving, clouted speaker
on matters long and short, the paste on which cancers
exponge, speeches embibe, by which cats are given
thumbs and made to guard their box of goings,
talk, a medley of shavings and growings.

This equal sleep of acquitted facts
is a guarantor of crowded opinion.

Ray Succre has been writing for twelve years and has begun publishing his poetry while trying to broaden himself as a poet and parent. He is now beginning to send his work out at a more social level. He currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife, Maisy, and baby boy, Painter. He has been published in Aesthetica, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Poetry Nottingham, as well as in many other publications, both in the U.S. and abroad.