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Tuesday, May 22, 2012


O p  e    n
ing the entry,
 I pass over its margin.
The door leans close to observe its wooden frame.
The flat, stained tree swells beyond its binding root;
it barely fits. The lock
sets in its tarnished hinge,
closing me in with my own. Art-
ful hands glance the doorknob,
Brassy and Loud. My paintings glower
down with hot resentment formed like a string of volcanic islands or
children of neglect. Full mother
To each I lay        dormant        in my
crumpled sheets. Loose paper
winks at me with the wrinkled face of the old man
who orders a large coffee with extra coffee
and tells me my dimples make me look
like Shirley. My temple dances
with the soft
of my youthful offer-
rings. Around the roses,
dried and tied with a worn shoelace, gather
dusty memories of their bloom and the young, painted hands
who tied them to their beds. Of wilted petals
my room is shaped. Like the forgotten
sculpture set to dry atop my lonely
piano, quiet
and cracking, my fingers
with ink. Bleeding colored phrases
to this fresher canvas,
my pen draws
C   l  o se.

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