Stretched across this canvas of sky,
the fog lie low, I walk somnambulea, the sadness at my
throat, catch
the sobs in the mist,
I open in the swirling sift,
to the edge of my vision, I follow the line of
inevitablity, the assurance of placing
foot print after foot print...

The dream is the same, awake, asleep,
the shiver of its memory, a line of silver in this
powdery white landscape,
I held a child in my belly and she turned to wet and slipped aside.
My tears her cradle, a whetstone my grave...

12/16/2003

Posted on 12/17/2003
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