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Literature Text
you are standing in the surf,
and you are holding out
a nail-bitten hand across the sea,
where confidence has become your only virtue
standing still while the waves
surge against your waist.
you are wearing polka dots,
forgotten -
not sundresses,
not
something less than that,
like red and black and
seafoam netting,
the strings of your bikini hang
while the ocean keeps you close
while the fog obscures your face,
your way,
this smile that has never really played
across your lips.
you are danger
in a way you have never been before:
the ocean knows it, the birds know it,
the salt soaked beach,
wearing away at the edges of your hips -
eternity -
knows it.
and across a minefield symphony
of shells
I can walk to you now, and fill my lungs
with ground that I can't see
and air that is too thick -
your hair in soaking strands,
your breath and your skin cold
and coated
in seawater,
your words a clam's lips apart
from mine.
and you are holding out
a nail-bitten hand across the sea,
where confidence has become your only virtue
standing still while the waves
surge against your waist.
you are wearing polka dots,
forgotten -
not sundresses,
not
something less than that,
like red and black and
seafoam netting,
the strings of your bikini hang
while the ocean keeps you close
while the fog obscures your face,
your way,
this smile that has never really played
across your lips.
you are danger
in a way you have never been before:
the ocean knows it, the birds know it,
the salt soaked beach,
wearing away at the edges of your hips -
eternity -
knows it.
and across a minefield symphony
of shells
I can walk to you now, and fill my lungs
with ground that I can't see
and air that is too thick -
your hair in soaking strands,
your breath and your skin cold
and coated
in seawater,
your words a clam's lips apart
from mine.
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
Opalescent
Opalescent
puddles shimmer aside pick-ups
and diesel engines resting
in the lot of a local diner.
The highway rumble fades
to jukebox country and patron
chatter past glass doors
smudged with the syrupy fingerprints
of apple-cheeked children.
There are no leftovers; everyone
leaves full or happy or contemplative,
eyes on the sky or head tilted
down, gazing into oil slick rainbows
and seeing entire worlds.
Literature
galatea.
sometimes lonely winter nights like these are too quiet
and my mind wanders and instead of thinking about her
i decide that i'd rather think about the statues in the Louvre.
i think about a Parisian palace of gold and shining pyramids
beneath starry skies. i think of ancient halls filled with
the armless, headless fragments of bygone glory.
divine creator, make me beautiful.
wing me of marble, shape me of stone.
give me hard eyes unseeing, white fingers unfeeling.
carve this sorrow from my breast and turn me cold.
make me perfect. make me priceless.
make me forget that, in another life, i was loved.
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