Wednesday, August 13, 2008

in motion

is how we live, sleeping inside skin. I want wheels turning
only in, around. My clothes, they get thin
as I get worn. We were looking out for tracing
clouds, fin slid under wing. We were without
beds. I nurtured sounds. We came to land
on land like rest. We fluttered full to nest
only sticks built into temporary chambers.
In all this moving I remember how much I love.

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is this real?