Sunday, May 20, 2018


How the voice bends
were we not born
to love & die
easily as a desert
opens palms,
the contour of sorrow
faded into peaks
of cheek bone & empty
bus stops of the mind

ribbed moonlight etching
alley ways across these hours

(a candle crawling the wall
or vestige of benediction,
a trembling synapse
tying together
midnight winds)

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