in my new garden boots the color of paradise,
a heart in the shape of a shovel with the yellow eyes
of a wolf just as it tires and a pillow that smells like
the perfume of clouds, I could begin again. {Start}
There are so many stories about {Life} as for the others
about crossing over, night after night I hear their slow, dark
voices speak of black seeds, deep red flowers and the missing
light. Something about the big, quiet house and those waiting
to be born inside. What I meant was "the wind carries those
who love it to the other side."
A room that is not a room. A bird that can't fly but
burns the wetness of its wings out. A tear that never
forgets to slide to the corners of the mouth.
My mother reads to me a book with pages as heavy as shadow,
dense as sleep and it sounds like singing, it sounds like a wild
and strange animal whose throat is filled with a thousand crows
in startled flight. At the end of the story {Stop} I close
my heart and {start} over again .
My mother reads to me a book with pages as heavy as shadow,
dense as sleep and it sounds like singing, it sounds like a wild
and strange animal whose throat is filled with a thousand crows
in startled flight. At the end of the story {Stop} I close
my heart and {start} over again .
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