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Literature Text
The audible breath, and me
gasping, grasping vainly for reality,
we break against each other
in that moment of waking.
You hang there in the air
tangible despite the fading
and the echo of your voice
saying spitefully, "Never."
I blink, a pitiful attempt
to bring the distant corners
of the room closer,
to feel protected.
gasping, grasping vainly for reality,
we break against each other
in that moment of waking.
You hang there in the air
tangible despite the fading
and the echo of your voice
saying spitefully, "Never."
I blink, a pitiful attempt
to bring the distant corners
of the room closer,
to feel protected.
Literature
Who knew
The man you visited in a dream,
The one you re-traced a half-remembered
Path for, in the off-chance of
Surprising one another again -
Polychromatic flannel and subtle sighing
Through the teeth, gently
Warm eyes softly exotic
Slavic vodka on a late summer night -
Swept by today, wearing blinders of
Deep conversation, still
Smiling with an accent
His arm around a waist
I want to sit in my room, arms wrapped around
Knees against chest in the solace of the sun,
I want to watch the endless journeys of
Sidewalk strangers from the fire escape
But it's ten to four and
There's no time to cry anymore;
Only time to join the chattering
Choir
Literature
The Sea
When you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.
Thomas 106: 1-2
Thumos
When I returned to town, I heard the stories:
That you'd walked the oak path,
And past the angel with the flaming sword;
Beneath the river,
Behind the trees
And through a pantheon
Literature
snowbones
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Suggested Collections
A friend told me a story yesterday.
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