Saturday, March 8, 2014

Some Low Lying Place In My Belly

held a loss that sometimes I could
taste, tart and acidic snipping
at my throat.  The fistful sloshing
defined my steps,

It coursed truthtelling through
my veins
until your piercing
stare cut me open
and I bled the loss and lost
its meaning

And I did not die
You sewed your skin into
my wound and your heartbeat
became my bandage

Now I hold a loss of memory 
sweet as wine and I swill the
view through your eyes

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