Tuesday, April 6, 2010


The seams of fabric belong to what has always been seen:
The scars the garden keeps and renews with each season,
The sun buried in a trophy of punctured clouds sharing what it has
in hopes that the familiar hands care for its child,
That safe stranger.

That safe stranger that plays and plucks the organ of flesh,
That shines and marvels at what's created when standing still and quiet
under that warm waterfall,
That warm water that sleeps in stolen stone and sings in quilted ornaments,
will pray and break
swell in limbs
and bathe in dreams

(K N O W I N G)

(We bury the bones the way we speak,
never properly and always too quickly)

Each face a second,
Each point a destination missed,
Constellations and fingertips.

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