Tuesday, November 28, 2017

the grace, like a cyclone

Folding over yourself
like a napkin on a Christmas table

the knowledge that if you fall
something cushions your skid

enter then, into the grace
that keeps bubbling under the surface

of the noise awakening with daybreak
the urgency of your eyes to feed on water

wash out the numb repetition
of yesterday, the day before it, the day after

don't think of funerals
when you bury time away

waste to make of old sweaters
something beautiful

re-purpose the words you say carefully
fall back into the creation of living

veer towards the grace received
all in one breath, like a cyclone turning around its own self

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