Monday, June 25, 2012

Upon Your Return

alone in the house
with few sounds

sometimes an
insect bumping into
the panes

pouring over maps
stacking books
just so

the breeze
sucks my hands
out the window

living in this
smashed down

it's been easier
to write
nothing at all

avoiding language
by moving it
in heaps
around the room

this morning
it won't lie still

barking out of
my fingertips

I tell you
this is the real

every morning
will be pressed into
our palms

like a coin from
a doting relative

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