strung from a thought arrived through the keyhole grasping the hand of another I will begin with my mouth then live with antlers remembering the light inside, always to breathe this unforgetting and his body shaped like a crabapple tree or a mother raised by a wolf looking back at the mirror and trying not to break anvils on the bottles of blame in another life: smell of moss, stream water, depressions of dark orange rocks which trap tiny fish the consequence of silence: a field beneath opening clouds on that morning I woke to the sound of the blue jay and used a small silver key some day we will all be gone from this place now that the live oak has thrown down all its caramel-colored leaves, thought lives in the ear-shaped idea of this only Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Messer. Used with permission of the author. |
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