Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Portia coughed the ashes up and
she rose again
every sorrow which had rendered her
blew heedless in the wind, dissembled.
The map of grief was gone, there was no
the door shut on the cartographer wielding
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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