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Friday, November 9, 2012


(Under Sandy’s Fire)

Rise up in distress,
descend in compassion--
I used to hang out as a blond.
Controversial and twisted,
a hurricane of night’s questions--

not much could shake me--
other than life, or one glimpse of death.

Life is a language of red lines and fallen trees,
a quiet way, a convincing fire to demand a step aside.

She is a resurrection of her windy sin,
a sheath of rain reflecting.
Her soul’s body is listening to

the crank of hell left in my heart--
a callous which no longer defines me,
time’s evanescence  tunes the morning light.

I will not be my own burden--
rummaging through the
dialect of guilt—
it was a moment when the bars in my heart
began to melt.

She looked at me last night
and questioned her meaning;
I looked at her today and
understood mine.

If I speak too loudly, I will be the prisoner.
If I walk too hard, I will crack.
I remember in the quiet of midnight
the owls’ unfathomable flight.


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