Monday, September 21, 2009



Rushed there,
in a pocket of the city
or the yelping quiet
of forests,
the boy/girl-ness
has been walking
toward the moons.

I found you
squatting in a patch
of sound,
a servant of highways
and wolves,

the whiskey brother
of a more wild memory.

Surrounded in cornfields
or concrete mesas,
we met weird sisters
and French rappers,
smoked resin out
of dolphin hides,
danced the blood into
our limbs.

Make no effort now,
the quiet has come to
hold and weave
the two-ness
of nature stories,
the dichotomy of

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