Monday, August 28, 2006

blue bones

and now, like so many things, we are without

I pictured you on the edge of a continent

snowy hair and ice bergs bobbing

along a line drawn by vikings to pretend

distance, longing

red birds weave and dart, their cloth scraps

nipped from a pile of notes forged

by an inked toungue; your palm

noting the time is takes from one

tip to the next. a place to rest.

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is this real?