I emerged from my door

and carried into my present

moment the quivering skeleton

of a whom this poem is for,

a what is trying to be accomplished.

We are the escape artists.

We point the way out.

We paint the way out with words,

words that could only

lead to freedom,

words that cannot

save themselves.

We who sit bandy-legged and

wonder it means, bandy-legged.

We waterways,

undertumble gold borne

freshwater ready or not

just follow me!

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a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?


I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d


We’re not always looking for an ancient cadence. Sometimes the many-pistoned hum is enough. The beginning and end of every journey: our freedom is to incantate, our freedom is to turn to something new

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