Come back, old friend.
Labor with me a while
To mend these broken rungs of language,
The relics of grammar that rumble like a storm
That’s been searching for you.

There’s still time to know the secret,
The bounty that lies on the shores of open hands—
The rows of words that search for you, even now,
And leave their tale in the remnants of structured towers,
Become ghosts spreading breadcrumbs to the floor.

09/08/2010

Posted on 09/08/2010
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