dry finger on dry lips
slowly back and forth
with eyes that stare
and skin
speckled gray
conversations
causes
blame
and metaphorical butcher's knives
reading
doing
teaching
losing
lusting
missing
small stones
the size of forever
and rivers
flooding mountain tops
close your eyes
to aim
it is as if
I see things, through grief
and all the mazes I've made
and been thrust into
differently
the nights are longer than
swirls through seashells
the pain is softer
finding a path to fuzz
into slipper spaces
and a varied version of
comfort
clouds that attempt
protection
while covering nothing
because all the while
the wolves surround
the bits that bite and slick wet claws
pull parts of flesh
of dreams
of night owls
poke holes in the eyelts
of night sky that used to
hide passion pressure tenderizers
till bones
crack holes into back bones
and stretchy things
begin to stiffen
my body
is not forfeit
nor my mind invaded
but my life
my hopes
the pin prick star songs
of some sort of future fog
has disappated
leaving a clear clean path
sparkling off to the horizon
with
nothing
much
in sight.
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