I only know it’s alchemy,
Turning the everyday metal
Of conversation into gold.
Words lilting in numbers refine
What we say, don’t they, when the base
Stuff of our thoughts is touched with fire?
As the fine line between
sky and land disappears,
my little skiff dissolves
in the deepening darkness.
Knives of generational trauma to not eat and not nurture,
So the brown dorm refrigerator and rank smell of past haunts ran the show,
There was a window to exit,
Mumbles of “girls at this school,”
When he in fact was running from himself
They are so often the first to go We can never be sure How it happens A few shatter in a tipping Or when being shipped To Xanadu or San Simeon Some come undone Simply for having been Too delicately fashioned And some just stay...Read More
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