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Monday, March 03, 2008


I was the O
that circled your lips,
made me and the word
spoken art,
sweetness suffocated
the back of pulsating
throats caught disabled,
quivering, panting
on the dry shore,
calling to the goddess
sailing away with imagination
in a white frothed sea.

The dust is thick
on my raw material,
no one can produce in me
such a perfect O
as your touch,
the heat of which is still
a distant glimmer on the skin,
remembrance is a distant
sun rising.

Dark and dank
ledges where the moss has grown,
where overcast clouds
ache and sag, I am there,
locked in a literal O,
dreaming of shadows
that might scorch instead
of cool, critically
listening to my heart
observing me.

How the shade differs
of a warm neck
of a fertile tree,
how the smell
of a good earth that
nurtured me makes me grow,
windows push open
to refresh the room,
but beauty is not enough
to blow out a love that most
merely dream, I am punished
to always remember.

Memory by memory the mind
picks off the petals,
playing a number game of
hope is an underground rustle,
a dirty song that plays
on and on,
I'm a day that's done,
the history of grief
an empty doorway,
a wordless O.

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