Monday, January 23, 2017


spoken about your perfectionism
but I do not believe in odd numbers

this is my problem
I have to forgive you seven times
seventy and I am unable to look you in the eye

weak before the ocean or the sky that had me write your name
in letters made from water,
no prints left on my fingers

seven, the stages of my grief in you
but I have surrendered to one of them too long
forsaken the other six

seven, the times of prayer
that is counted in my head
proceed to project the way hums turn into another music

kept before our eyes are shut
to envy daylight
prevent it from entering

this lit hour, seven
a number has its ways
to forgive, one seeks to stop counting sand swept opposite of the storm

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