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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
the ' in the fourth part are breath marks, feel free to breath in while reading

Submitted: July 13, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 13, 2012




Winter came & coaxed out the vague flowers seen along the riverbank, lavender. Today I sat down at the face of the San Lorenzo, watched the swallows loop & collide onto surface with a splash. The air rolling on heavy like wrinkles in rice paper as the river flowed beach bound at my feet. I slid by ghost-like, sun licked right through me.


If I were to combine your blood, toes, & hair
it might not be you, but it would be enough to satisfy my basic desires.


Time spent around town with names in your mouth, crossing the wet
streets being absorbed into the morning's atmosphere.
While crows cozy in electric hammocks. I haven't made enough people uncomfortable
at the supermarket. Whole slabs of human crazy
tucked snug into wallpaper flesh – I feel like a baby
being subjected to a giant polygraph machine. It's hard to be sentimental
without developing a dark sense of humor.


In the meadow the wild lupin are pulling themselves apart at their blue crowns spouting out cones manufactured & fringed with white ' dapples of blossom umbrella between long columns of grass toward sky ' the colors lifted amid the shadows slant with ozone puff ' When I grow up I want to watch grass move within the air's interludes:

(phenomena sealed away by the soil ' surface rippling
fallowed ' snakes coiled round
the blades intertwined in patterns ' feel the torque barrel
cross the mutilated lace of grass ' wind droning between the sleeves

flickered against the sun's delicate lacerations
only reaching the broiling dust ' strung out in discs wheeling heavy under breath) '

or I can become the fertilizer in your garden ' realize sense of purpose


I listened to the changing dialects of the sea murmuring inside a shell.

Will you devour me when my reclining bones disturb your ears & skull?

How many hours have you spent in bed? A sleepy golden storm layered with archways & leading towards neck – could I have kept you here while the lupins blanket four and a half miles away? I already know that affections cannot be hoarded,

but when I sleep alone my knees grow cold.

The tide of bedsheets encase our lives like a veil; & not sure to do with that moment under the skylight I

started to peel away the film of my vision away – to see what kind of stream

flowed underneath,

I never wanted the future to be my fault.

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