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Literature Text
I am combing my hair
and leaving pieces of myself to the wind
zipping by like mossy tumbleweeds,
they become part of Wyoming's rolling tundra
little gifts to a land
my heart
may never be
and leaving pieces of myself to the wind
zipping by like mossy tumbleweeds,
they become part of Wyoming's rolling tundra
little gifts to a land
my heart
may never be
Literature
Palimpsest
The labyrinth, a spiral holding
Life in limbo, fold refolding
Paper hearts, worn in creases
Make remaking lives in pieces
Wandering the sulci, gyri
Dream the symbols on papyri
Circling the inner keep
Enfolding fraught and fettered sleep
Patterns circumscribe my mind
Beyonding left to look behind
I contemplate that which I make
Unfold it, stuttering awake
Literature
I never found the spring
I breathed small errings into the crook of your elbow
eyes half skewed to the weather scheme
Outside, besmirched ink or knife blade in the cusp of light
Overcast and breathing, the sanguine morning
I whispered small resolutions into the crescent
of your pelvic bones, I
stammered in the rocks and choked in the foam
I never found the spring, lost in tired fronds
I left you clues in the seams of your skin, the
flesh sore between my teeth
Milk and copper permeate
the intrepid space our bodies clasp
As we ripen and decay
Literature
Apocalypta
Dawn breaks soft,
You are sun glare
in the rearview;
and I, the heavy mist
ahead
on a road that forgets to end.
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Comments25
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I want more from this than there is.
How do I feel, what pieces are you leaving?
"little gifts to a land
my heart
may never be"
I feel that way when I'm working outside.
Maybe this should get expanded.
How do I feel, what pieces are you leaving?
"little gifts to a land
my heart
may never be"
I feel that way when I'm working outside.
Maybe this should get expanded.