Hands coiled back,/arms hang from the slots in my shoulders/they trace the reaches of my bearing./I’m having all kinds of trouble/just breathing in and out./one lung empties after the other./After that, my hands ball up in fists/I’m hearing a wind song/all about the maze of my body/wile coy figures beside me/drink from vessels steeped with new wine/till they’re cross eyed, leaving domains behind them/domains of blood, absolving us all/from the accusers of a grey world
Dead Reckoning
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Poetry in Motion 