6/17/2009

Still-born

Confide in me your problems,
wet match, cold blanket,
reluctant daybreak. Take
my hand, let me burn your
frozen house, pull the needle
from your vein, pick muscle from
the bone. Still-born, blind, even
stars are grateful for their sky,
fading roses for their dutiful stems,
the ocean for its vexing tides.

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