Thursday, May 15, 2014

Yet haste, haste on

Yet haste, haste on

Where do you all go to, small miseries? Fleeing 
like tumbling lemmings spurred by anthrax. 

Holding space for more 
small miseries

more brief reprieve long 

more conversations with the landscape:

                                      Oh night sky, can't you hear my tree fall? 

Where am I going when I follow
the tunnel of time? 

Curled beneath
                         the curling gale, 

the brackish wind,

the thickest socks, 

                        the dreams of fog,
                         all underwater

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