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Literature Text
impetuous dreams of
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.
I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.
I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
off the map
entirely.
coral fibres left imprinted
on our cheeks, we could
drown in the reefs beneath
the dinner-plates
of the earth, or perhaps
slip into another realm
of currents and moon-tether
and sea-storms,
where we start with
no air and no place
left to run,
but all this time
to hold,
all this time
to stay,
dancing to the tune
of whale-song
slowly receding,
as we sing back
in happier keys.
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.
I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.
I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
off the map
entirely.
coral fibres left imprinted
on our cheeks, we could
drown in the reefs beneath
the dinner-plates
of the earth, or perhaps
slip into another realm
of currents and moon-tether
and sea-storms,
where we start with
no air and no place
left to run,
but all this time
to hold,
all this time
to stay,
dancing to the tune
of whale-song
slowly receding,
as we sing back
in happier keys.
Literature
windy night
the night stars flickerhigh in the tossing oak treeswaxing moon grows cold
Literature
sandpapered
even after I polished myself again
and again I still
splinter. by now I am flatter than I ever
planned, but I guess that's not enough(the last time someone stepped on me they
still bled. they told me that saying
sorry wasn't going to fix the wound so I
swallowed it back, ran sandpaper through again because
what else could I do?and now I'm not sure if I'll ever stand up again)
Literature
stolen by the moon
These wasting hours
Tendrils sweeping into
The light of morning
We surge
Hungry and wild
Two divided sides
Of this silver coin
Suspended in black.Blood cries are lost
In silver moonlight.Save your tears
Until they can fall
Beneath raindrops
Soaking into the earth
To water the children
Of the trees.
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Comments14
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Love the image of running to the edge of the map and then eventually off the map entirely--pushing a boundary and then breaking it. I also was seeing this play out like a movie, but with the map metaphors, my ind's eye literally panned from footage to a 2D animation. It was great. Beautiful imagery.