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Ghosts in the garden, fog falls on the land morning glory wilted, leaf-down heavy hand
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names of things grind down my teeth
and catch in my craw
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she asked me why I would be afraid
of barely billowed butterflies,
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soft toy of a dog clenched between sharp fangs
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every single poem has a soul wearing us, like childish carving
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Everyone’s a poet these days
when first babble of beleaguered lines
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so, two, and he who watches,
watch the third
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I tried to save a Ladybug from vengeful cold tongue of Nor’easters after finding her shivering under a fallen bruised-brown leaf that was d
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once, you took up space beneath breast and bone
for too short a time, your gasping first breathes
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A rider and horse sweat go together;
salt of animal and salt of man,
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our desire wings, like nightbirds, up into Everland of ether that opens
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Woman, who travels to her sister’s side
must ride wicked black horse racing
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Women used to cut off a digit, took a stick of charcoal
from a funeral fire and smudged their brows,
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it is difficult to find comfort
amidst brown broken branches
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last night was all full of rising and falling stars
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scrolling beneath breathlessness ~
breath-held burrow in venal wander~
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I.
peering across distorted miles
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dry tongue of land
tastes salt and grit of grief
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I awake on this Motherless morning, take down bedraggled decorations,
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I. we waited, wondering why
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take hold of this invitation
to join with those who have waited
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there is a certain way footsteps sound
such breaking song or shushing whisper
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a little sponge-piece of cell. saturated with angst.
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Sisters do not need to know where you work,
where you play, what you weigh, whether you are single,
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Doves mourn in the midnight trees, coyotes snicker along spiny ridges of nearby gullies, skitter and skritch of worrisome little things are
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Mother Earth speaks with cracked lips burning tongues of leaves speak back
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Sabbath Rose of evening falls
amidst dust of the deceased
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crows curring over crusts of bread
offered for singing snowbirds
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beneath a half-slit eye of sea
lies hiss and kiss;
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I have spoken to clutches of green grass
waiting for me to speak to them
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Men have strangled our mothers, made our grandmothers disappear,
starved our sisters until their bones gnawed through their joints,
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deep in heart of a black poplar tree lays a song
composing its own death march; dear drum, done drum
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