Sunday, April 8, 2012


My children, who are a part of the sun, mine embers to be yours.

Acutely known

--or unknown,

The fluted heart is felted in damp green fur--
The cat gets around.

Isn't it remarkable what slender ledges welcome this little thing,

"What next, Dear Animal, when my hands fall to my mossy sides?"

And what is like the things one does when finally free?

They're bundled in the Earth,
So coercive when called upon.

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