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December 2, 2012
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           i

You are a heavy metal in my mind;
the lead that shoos me away
from your skies.

When I mention your name,
you quicken in the wind,
harden to the frost
on the pane.

By the time I catch up
and chip away at you,
you lash at me with a biting tongue;

it is like walking away from a poem,
you become the nondescript
feeling between the grooves of the air
and my body,
the rising swell in my stomach,
the lump in my throat.

I try to write you
and you gather bones
just to crumble again,
the backsides of letters
and straight line reality
of form and material--
withering in the unfolding time of syntax.

I have to chase you
into the maze of the dark,
see how deep it goes
in the space of a room--
a spiral of galaxies
escaping with the light
until morning finds me
like a pale ghost of it,
blank papers blowing in the wind;

         ii

The sun
pulls me out of the dream,
she runs her fingers across my bedpost,
the back of a chair--
a risen dawn is like that,
tracing the lines of a place
she half remembers,
half retreated in shadow.
This is where I am my weakest,
as caffeine shades me into the white
of the hour,
waiting for the fog to pass,
for color to fill me with memories
I somewhat resist.

I roam the town like a free radical
with lines and unfinished poems,
dipping into fountains
a stream of conscious.
I try to build you into the sun
before it is too late,
but you fall to me in a sop of leaves
as if wakefulness had an atmosphere you cannot withstand.
Still a work in progress.

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