February 2011? Poetry from A Dark Mare Still Here
Cross That Line:
Pushing through, head cresting between
pulsed lips, the purse of sadness
in time of suns and moons before
gestation, its all the same day and
night, there is not time
just gestation
just gestation
just my reality
which is but a dream,
a dream within a dream,
and my docile head, a bloody
dome, is cross countoured pain,
placental visions drip, grip me,
as I begin to see
lucidity.
I believe it is all mine, a tiny body
built for me,
but, essentially,
my head is over and over again
infinite births
fractalized firsts
breath, eyelash flutter, breath
awake as one
in a dream
an unseen scene seen
You as I
and I as me.
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