Poetry | March 01, 2007

Featuring the poems:


More and tinier

A long green thread unraveled from a dress, picked up by the wind, caught in the branch of a tree:

Not even my aging body belongs to me.

My heart made of strangeness and cells.  The sleeping salamander of my spleen.  That miraculous, ancient needle threading a dress through a tree.  It is one kind of difficulty to be the thread.  Another to be the needle.  Hardest of all, the tree.

Every day, I become more and tinier.  Eat less.  Think before I speak.  On Sunday, after sex, I remember the boats speeding across the water, propelled wildly by the lightest breeze, their sails swollen with it, still blowing on a summer Sunday through my memory.  Oh, those boats, this is what they mean.

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