By | 1 December 2011

number of sips equals number of tastes
cirrus is a smeared, silent language
smother hides mother holds other
more salve in horizons than creeds
thinks spin but a moon librates
we’re ants in the blind search for sweetness
monks can tell one silence from another
in ICU it’s the day and your name
it’s in forgetting, losing North
not long after I’m dead, you’ll be dead
a peppermint brailles in bark
we’re all wide-eyed in the sudden light
a hammer feels the purpose of a nail
and can see the black in the blue

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