Tuesday, July 5, 2011


Portia coughed the ashes up and
she rose again

every sorrow which had rendered her
leaden veined

blew heedless in the wind, dissembled.

The map of grief was gone, there was no

the door shut on the cartographer wielding
exhausted vellum

and she slept two days on that embroidered pillow.

Having eaten and been
swallowed by death

Some things seemed small,

nothing colossal as a kiss on the arm,

as finally something sweet on the tongue,

as blue as new day,

these the gods.

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