Saturday, 14 June 2008

Not a Year after My Mother’s Passing

We are impervious to wormholes of rumor

carving seas, stormy minds adrift.

So many walk free in this state

terrified and posture. We are afraid

and garden. So many besieged

we are survivors. Our conversation

crosses the dead.

I am your eyes.

All is not well.

Send recipes.


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