Friday, April 24, 2009


I plant one hand over the middle of my chest,
exactly nine centimeters off center.
My other hand has formed a fist, anchored from my shoulder.
There is a breeze and my neck is cooled.
The rest of my body hot, sticky, wet.
I step to the edge.
I want to step back.
I look forward.
I want to look back.

The breeze stops.
The white noise of the world, gone.
The clouds sit down.

The magnet that is, holds me.
I ask to be let down, but Magnet!
Don't let me down.
Down where the drowned walk and talk.
I want to be here, true,
where the view is new.

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