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Literature Text
It's happening again,
a gust of change
shook the earth;
wraith of past mistakes
under the carpet
now tugging at my sleeve
hallelujah
sings the nightingale
dark horizon
a line of trees, naked
like my soul in your hands,
burning in something
much more terrible
than desire
hallelujah
sings the nightingale
it hurts to think
of all your lies
but I only wipe the dust
from my scars
in spring, and I forgive
every other season
hallelujah
sings the nightingale
I see no wonderland
through the looking glass,
only the inconsistency
of my skin
dead leaves,
what your smile has left
hallelujah
sings the nightingale
without a reason
you’d trust a stranger’s kiss
more than my embrace;
no more whys
perhaps it’s time for me
to leave this broken secret
behind
hallelujah,
the nightingale cries
I am not, for you
who I want to be
A Bit of Love
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Literature
They sing 'one for sorrow' and now you know why
A fortune-teller once told her that she had
eyes made for crying and that there would be
sparrow-boned boys with fledgling sharp beaks
who would smell it on her. And they would peck
peck peck kisses on her eyelids and leave claw-prints
on her palms, leave tears welling in her eyes as they
soared.
She would forever be the branch, never the bird. Spring
could paint her sakura-pink and summer could coat her
in honey-amber sap but there would
always be an autumn, a winter, when
the geese would mark out arrows over
head, calling the birds to migrate to tropical
freckle-faced girls and pebble-beach-back
women, all sunshine all the time. But she wa
Literature
Petrichor
I walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
Literature
Fading eyelashes
In his heart of hearts,
the husband knew she would always fear
the home,
would always fear
retiring from the desk in charge,
would always be
the nun who would excommunicate
all popes and priests,
-the heretical demons!-
who would grow up to gush
at her friends who married
blond, clear looking foreigners
-while she is stuck in her
cold too cold hot too hot
rainy too rainy country
He forgot to tell
his secretary
to not answer his
home phone
but at least he
lost himself in another city
in another job
other children
another time
unshackled of everything
unclouded of everything
perhaps he is lounging
in the mountains
with his new children
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Comments28
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I love this. Incredible.