Refuse/d words built into infinite forms of bodies. This collection is unedited; done in one sitting; sometimes daily, frequently infrequent.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

XVIII.


Sometimes
I am perfect

The spindle
of my machine
ticks like
meant- to- be
making material
to weave with.

Sometimes
I can sustain

All things like
a delta,
a bleeding river
of sweetened soil.

Sometimes
I am nothing

The tiny spaces
between atoms
expanding
until my matter
dwindles
to a few spots
of ember

And sometimes
I am everything

the wind, steam
and brick, raw
and domestic
the dirt and drapes
constant and
inconsistent
and everything

sometimes

is true.


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