the same sun you see

in these, the putting together of words
hide history and harmony
the long arch of secret eyes:
this calamity worn through

i don't remember flying
(as others do)
but drop slowly
my tired eyes- done in and torn
out by long winter nights
-the cold that is always warm

i am haunted by rivers watched,
storms seen, gladness unveiled

i am so often the turning of the seas
like the curled edges of pie crusts
that give way to the war
of sensations on the tongue

(inside is everything)

and me

-and so,
like the ending of days,
marriages, fallen leaves

i try to break the lightline
tear down the old thoughts old methods,
burn dry pages read through
too many times and find
(at last)
the final formula of words
inside of which is the
only cool, clean room left
unhaunted by tears.

without intent on finding it, words are useless.

2006-03-12 | 3:11 p.m.
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