I knew this world's promiscuous daughters.
I knew its recalcitrant sons,
saw them carved out of slag,
tiny soldiers, decorations for sandrock tombs.
There's a romance in running from
the place where roots would hold you,
beauty in feet torn from the toil
of traversing the yawning space between
how you like to imagine yourself
and what you can never admit to being, still.

02/09/2006

Posted on 04/12/2006
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