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(no subject)

Jul. 26th, 2014 | 11:32 am

Last night a lightening bug crashed into my side.

oh please, let it be.

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July Bugs

Jul. 22nd, 2014 | 12:39 am

They throw their bodies against the glass
making small thuds that make me turn my head.

They just want a little light in their dark night.

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(no subject)

Jul. 7th, 2014 | 03:43 pm

It all becomes so significant.

In the middle of the night something has eaten all the kale.
You stood in your nightgown silhouetted onto the grass
and knew there was something out there.
In the heat of the morning,
the usually prolific Queen Anne's Lace is scarce,
barely showing a white head in 3 out of 10 fields
but the clovers are running rampant popping up next to every path.
The house you moved in and out of to following the blooms of a cactus.
In all these years you still cannot find a hope chest to buy.
Your very old grandmother got a much needed haircut, curls of white on the floor
                    your nose started bleeding when he touched your back.
The library shelves are shifting sands again
and you know you've lost the key book with the key phrase that will make this all make sense.

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Haiku

Jul. 3rd, 2014 | 03:43 pm

I felt the blackbird
soaring in wide skies above,
my solid bones yearn.

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The night she started to give up I saw her in a dream

Jul. 1st, 2014 | 08:06 pm

I woke and wrote
           " and then they danced slowly. this is the end of her secret life, one last tie to her livening room. emptying the full house."
livening surely must have been a mistake and
that house has ben lost for years --
but I'm certain when she dreams her addled dreams
that is the only place she goes.
And I saw her dancing there,
in the bombed out ruins of her house
on the night she decided to give up.

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Knowing

Jul. 1st, 2014 | 07:59 pm

The answer is more real than
                                          breath
these days.
I cannot speak but tiny fragments erupt out
like shards of black confetti,
clinging to the corners of my lips.
In the quiet -- when I am not speaking --
I  breathe it in and out
                   a small opaque cloud
hovering between my nostrils and mouth.
It is in my every cell calling out
so why do I try to deny it?

They say nothing is worse than not knowing.

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Waiting

Jun. 28th, 2014 | 07:39 am

It's like
the empty picture frames.

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(no subject)

Jun. 18th, 2014 | 08:51 am

How do you prepare for the death of someone who only theoretically exists?

The one in four chance that I must rip you from my dark warm womb
because I know your life would be pain.

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on waiting to know if there is a single error in what makes me

Jun. 14th, 2014 | 09:51 pm

Three weeks is a long time in the summer

enough time to watch the dark centered eggs in a puddle
advance from tadpoles to awkward half-beings
neither fish nor frog

enough time to watch one more moon change
growing round with its own child
(which is, as always, a replica of itself)

enough time to examine the nearly invisible
water bugs as they skate across the surface of the creek
never daring to dip beneath.

How can I do anything else but watch the small changes?
The minutiae are defining my days.
The scientists are defining my minutiae,
half-way across the country,
the invisible parts that run under my surface
are emerging, forcibly unfurled strand by strand

And the scientists are spending these three weeks
looking for the single error that my grandmother has carried,
(three times into a child and ninety-two years in her blood)
from the blood of my arm given freely three weeks ago
to see if I too, have one goddamn letter out of place,
a minuscule burden,
heavier than all of the wet summer air I have known in my life.

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on not being able to catch a small one inside of me

Jun. 14th, 2014 | 09:36 pm

Last year the fireflies were outrageous,
ten million fragments of a star cast down into the fields.
The two of us watched mouths agape on the side of the road
their yellow-green light flickering -- calling out,
small novas of our own would soon be falling to earth.

This year the long blades of grass grow dark in the twilight,
crickets call out, birds sing themselves to sleep
but not a single spark radiates from the cool infinite depths
and as the sun dips down into slumber day and again
my fields too, have remained dark.

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