Friday, January 11, 2013

Words Tending to a Garden

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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