Posts
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you already know summer
you've felt
the brambles and sweat,
the curl of berry-stained lips.
you've seen
the cornflower sky stolen
by a red-orange river,
the evening still thick
with lightning bugs and laughter.
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january 24th, 2010
her voice sounded heavy to her, filled
with the unnamed emotion
everyone had told her to expect. except
she hadn't. she'd rolled
her eyes at the shiny pamphlets and blog posts
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Dew-drop
In a dew-drop, a little world exists
A place turned blue and silver by the light
That lingers well beyond the morning mist.
In a dew-drop, a little world exists
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Good Morning
Good morning, sunlight like syrup
Touching every dew-streaked blade
Of grass and puddle of drying mud.
Good morning, air that smells of spring,
Air that sounds
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for you
if feelings are fluid then so is
the way you run your hands through your hair halfway out of your braid
your breath against my neck since you don't want others to hear
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Longing
It’s a ball of knotted string
Stuck under my ribcage.
Whenever I start to untangle it,
I break a sweat & forget
Why I even tried.
Loves
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Rain Running
My watch did not enjoy my run in the rain.
This morning before the other humans had stirred,
I woke to the ringing of an alarm that was not my own,
and saw the irresistible rain.
Now my watch doesn't tell the date.
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Take a Moment
To you
you who lives among our rainbow hills--
green one moment
orange the next
and always blue in the distance--
you who lives along a river
you who lives looking into sunsets
you and you
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the ending
I'm finishing the story,
How can it be true?
I'm nearing the end;
There is no future to see.
It doesn't feel real
But it is—it's all going to be over.
Months it's been since this world's been right,
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poppies are the color of blood
this president can turn even the solemnest of holidays into an opportunity to say whatever he wants. the gravestones crumble in their fields of poppies listening to him speak. all uppercase. all lies.
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amnesia
wrap your laced-up fingers around my throat like you don’t want to breathe,
hold my pupils in your palms. do you want to smile?
amnesia. the brain doesn’t like the watercolour poem of my skeletal frame,
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Dinner With You
I only ever came here for the fortune cookies
I don't know if you can tell
when I stare at the menu
under shiny plastic with a red rim
when I glance