we lived in houses made of
and windows of concrete and dirt,
driveways of water

there are winds and
books of fresh air and
the fossilized wing of
a butterfly

if only you would
dig deeper

we lied, then
laughed, but it never went

you would sprinkle stars
on the ground and blow them
away, and only pebbles
would line where it all
used to be

and the crickets would sing to us
before we could
run far

it isn't here, it isn't here;

might we disappear?


This is, on another note, my hundredth post.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Very interesting!

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)