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Posts Tagged ‘poem 15’

The blood red palms of

the Japanese Maple shriek

in the morning breeze

I gape, transfixed by this

visual symbol of our siege

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I’m sorry the things I’m saying don’t make

the kind of sense you crave, where one word means

just one thing. Understanding now takes

action: you must cleave the word, surgically, clean

from itself. Either that or cleave to your ignorance.

Consider sanguine. Does that word want to bleed

you like a vampire? Or bore you with nonchalance?

Slake confused me first; on hearing it I felt a thirst

for water. Or was it salt? Take a word that seems

simple: skin. Which intention hits you first?

Cells that shelter you from pain or the need

to remove it? We’ve reached this apology’s end

half remorse, half the urge to defend.

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