Light as a feather.
Light on the eyes.
Light flashing into tear streaming eyes.
Light in my arms,
My long-lost love.
Light as the clouds
soaring above.

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The key couldn't break.
Forged by the hand of fate
In the fires of adversity
Her love would mold
The white-hot metal
Into the shape it was meant to take
Cooled by her touch
Quenched with desire
It would unlock

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I cannot be old as were, but I'll be as old...
No springs, no machination, no burn, can retreat the circle
but the circle will come round
--not old as were
Along the shore they did not remember
Walking until their flesh and their ligaments
No mercy for the parched
And she stood staring from behind pa(in)
And he paced
And he destroyed
And he ripped--because
This is not the girl I wanted
This is not the girl I knew
This is not the girl I ordered
Custom made behind a pa(in) of glass
Darling or darling oh darling...

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Fourteen fish
like a silver

They are traveling
than their fathers

who never
left the river

Their futures
in lemons
bread crumbs

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Inner core
Outer core
Upper mantle

Flora between her fingers,
Seeds between her toes.
Like Cinderella, I thought,
recalling an old "Wizard of Id" panel.

I stroll above the layers of the earth,
sing-songing under the tarp of heaven,
bulging with the weight of infinity.

Susan springs to her feet.
"Jesus Christ, a spider! Kill it!"
tangling her hair with
typewriter fingers.

I catch it on a leaf and
move it across the field.

I guess that makes me Mantle.

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swallowed by the water flowers at last
the canoe breathed across the swamp
I found the roots of an ancient oak
felled by Paul Bunyan
shed on by the ox
and dove,
a dove falling into the light,
to the tree's top,
waving in the murky green,
strange fish like oxen
strange waters
strange trees
the dove and the ancient oak

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A tattoo of a shadow remains when the light recedes.

Mock the sun, then, and ridicule the clouds. They've always seemed so stupid anyway.

Clouds. The poets can have them. They can have the clouds and the sun. Where are their clouds on a sunny day? And where's their sun on this overcast morning?

That's my shadow. I always have it. I don't need the weather -- just the steady hand of a artist.

Tattooed, herself.

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As the Sun rose from His slumber,
She began to stir
in her little house of wood,
a coffin just for her.

Each day,
she hears them scrape
away the earth with shovels,
waiting until
her final bed is done
forever for her to lay.

In the morning,
she awakes,
dead to others
yet alive in her dreams,
to the sound of falling stones
as they cover her coffin.

And, as the final stone fell,
she said a silent prayer, asking for
sweet dreams for her to keep.

And as the earth lay there,
the mound dug in the...

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the city was empty
winter empty, not
summer empty
snowstorm home-bound, not
bound for Myrtle Beach, or
flown to Florida or
wherever the hell
the neighbors went.
Christ, doesn't anyone stay
home anymore?
Sit on the deck in frayed nylon
beach chairs?
I can't even find them in
the stores anymore.
what happened?
where did everyone go?
it's the city...
it should

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Some people have never touched the snow, or swam in an ocean, or taken an elevator to a rooftop.

I once watched it snow on the ocean from a rooftop. I took the elevator to the lobby and walked out to the beach.

First I stood in a sandstorm. Then I ran in a snowstorm. Then I fell in the snow and the sand.

The snowflakes looked like stars falling from the night.

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