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Habit
He addresses his hands in ceramics,
cracks his lungs against the glass.
It is morning, I have nothing new to say.
I sip, I stare - accustomed to the teakettle's hiss.
When the house is quiet I will speak of him,
allow him to walk freely while no one is looking;
I will not make him a secret that I hide -
like a child shoving a mistake into her pocket.
As I stand from the breakfast table,
the window's light makes him an angel -
softens his edges.
I slip him from his white t-shirt.
We wrap ourselves in the morning’s blanket.
When his lungs become loud again
I will put him in my pocket, not as my secret,
but rather to preserve all that is good about him -
to place instead an olive branch between his teeth.
Habit is the gravity that keeps our legs tapping,and chained,around this table.
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| Lovely. I'd have loved to hear you talking with him though. J |
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| Your writing has taken on this gentleness which is simple, elegant, and clear. I am jealous, but I love you so it's okay. I think I've responded to this poem a hundred times...but I'm doing it again because it's so brilliant. I can see sun streaming in through the window...everything is white and soft. It is morning, and the air is fresh. Everything is new and clean. |
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| very well done! i most like: "like a child...", and "the window's light makes him an angel". Namaste, Phill |
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Damn good. Damn good. Finally someone who writes with architecture, a dynamic of rhythm and grip of aesthetic poetry. Very good. I don't think I would change a thing. Which is pissing me off, because I love to find something, but this one in my eyes seems pretty damn well revised.
Hope to scroll and read more like it. |
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