Monday, June 30, 2008

I Mean Ours

Beneath storm clouds, wild strawberries. Underfoot, on the tongue. And, or - well . . . The "promise" of rain, how can it be broken. Is never what initially it was. After. You have to go stand beneath that tree now. Scarred and immobile and petrifying silence. The white clover blossoms like reluctant students. That voice, yes. Yes,that one.

Or this: your bloom, your bicep, which I followed in my travels. Your goat unraveling entrails. This forest, that voice. Or a story that no longer cares about negotiating pain. Ask: what the hell are you talking about, mediation. The sentence that longs to be a line but instead reassembles. As a gift, constantly.

Oh, did you seem them brewing, edging closer and closer? The tears, I mean, ours.

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