Wednesday, April 20, 2011


Abandon me upon the stage of the open sky--
For either the security or your release

--or the ease of peace.

But keep in bluest trust my shadow--
The eave of which leans to

Cool your hand.

The rarest part of the heart's profit finds its source in the wrists

--the Mesopotamia of you, where there the origin of sense memory still flows.

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